THE 


LAIRD    OF    NORLAW, 


A    SCOTTISH    STORY. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OP 


"  MARGARET  MAITLAND,"  "  LILLIESLEAF,"  "  ORPHANS,' 
"  THE  DATS  OF  MY  LIFE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


. 


NEW    YOKK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 

FKANKLIN    SQTJAEE. 


1850. 


*   A 


57/3 


THE   LAIR])    OF    NORLA¥.//j~^ 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  house  of  Nbrlaw  stands  upon  the  slope  of  a  low  hill,  / 
under  shelter  of  the  three  mystic  Eildons,  and  not  very  far* 
from  that  little  ancient  town  which,  in  the  language  of  the 
author  of  "  Waveiiey,"  is  called  Kennaquhair. 

A  low,  peaceable,  fertile  slope,  bearing  trees  to  its  top 
most  height,  and  corn  on  its  shoulders,  with  a  little  river 
running  by  its  base,  which  manages,  after  many  circuits,  to 
wind  its  way  into  Tweed.  The  house,  which  is  built  low  \ 
upon  the  hill,  is  two  stories  in  front,  but,  owing  to  the  un 
equal  level,  only  one  behind.  The  garden  is  all  at  the  back, 
where  the  ground  is  sheltered,  but  in  front,  the  green, 
natural  surface  of  the  hill  descends  softly  to  the  water  with 
out  any  thing  to  break  its  verdure.  There  are  clumps  of 
trees  on  each  side,  straying  as  nature  planted  them,  but 
nothing  adorns  the  sloping  lawn,  which  is  not  called  a  lawn, 
nor  used  for  any  purposes  of  ornament  by  the  household  of 
JSTorlaw. 

Close  by,  at  the  right  hand  of  this  homely  house,  stands 
an  extraordinary  foil  to  its  serenity  and  peacefulness.  The  ( 
old  castle  of  Norlaw,  gaunt  and  bare,  and  windowless,  not  \ 
a  towered  and  battlemented  pile,  but  a  straight,  square, 
savage  mass  of  masonry,  with  windows  pierced  high  up  in 
its  walls  in  even  rows,  like  a  prison,  and  the  gray  stone-work 
below,  as  high  under  the  first  range  of  windows  as  the  roof 
of  the  modern  house,  rising  up  blank,  like  a  rock,  without 
the  slightest  break  or  opening.  To  see  this  strange  old 
ruin,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  peaceful  country,  without  a 
feature  of  nature  to  correspond  with  its  sullen  strength,  nor 
a  circumstance  to  suggest  the  times  and  the  danger  which 


THE   LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 


made  that  necessary,  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world ;  all 
the  more  that  the  ground  has  no  special  capacities  for 
defense,  and  that  the  castle  is  not  a  picturesque  baronial 
accumulation  of  turrets  and  battlements,  but  a  big,  austere, 
fortified  dwelling-house,  which  modern  engineering  could 
make  an  end  of  in  half  a  day. 

It  showed,  however,  if  it  did  nothing  better,  that  the 
Livingstones  were  knights  and  gentlemen,  in  the  day  when 
the  Border  was  an  unquiet  habitation— and  for  this,  if  for 
nothing  else,  was  held  in  no  little  honor  by  the  yeoman 
Livingstone,  direct  descendant  of  the  Sir  Rodericks  and  Sir 
Anthonys,  who  farmed  the  remains  of  his  paternal  property, 
and  dwelt  in  the  modern  house  of  ISTorlaw. 

This  house  was  little  more  than  a  farm-house  in  appear 
ance,  and  nothing  more  in  reality.  The  door  opened  into  a 
square  hall,  on  either  side  of  which  was  a  large  room,  with 
three  deep-set  windows  in  each ;  four  of  these  windows 
looked  out  upon  the  lawn  and  the  water,  while  one  broke 
each  corner  of  the  outer  wall.  On  the  side  nearest  the 
castle,  a  little  behind  the  front  level  of  the  house,  was  an 
"  outshot,"  a  little  wing  built  to  the  side,  which  formed  the 
kitchen,  upon  the  ever-open  door  of  which  the  corner  win 
dow  of  the  common  family  sitting  room  kept  up  a  vigilant 
inspection.  A  plentiful  number  of  bed-chambers  up-stairs 
were  reached  by  a  good  stair-case,  and  a  gallery  which  en 
circled  the  hall ;  the  architecture  was  of  the  most  monoto 
nous  and  simple  regularity ;  so  many  windows  on  one  side 
soberly  poising  so  many  windows  on  the  other.  The  stair 
case  made  a  rounded  projection  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
which  was  surmounted  by  a  steep  little  turret  roof,  blue- 
slated,  and  bearing  a  tiny  vane  for  its  crown,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  countryside;  and  this,  which  glimmered 
pleasantly  among  the  garden  fruit  trees  when  you  looked 
down  from  the  top  of  the  hill — and  the  one-storied  projec 
tion,  which  was  the  kitchen,  were  the  only  two  features 
which  broke  the  perfect  plainness  and  uniformity  of  the 
house. 

But  though  it  was  July  when  this  history  begins,  the 
flush  of  summer — and  though  the  sunshine  was  sweet  upon 
the  trees  and  the  water,  and  the  bare  old  walls  of  the  castle, 
there  was  little  animation  in  Norlaw.  The  blinds  were 
drawn  up  in  the  east  room,  the  best  apartment — though 


£  THE    LAIRD     OF     NOEL  AW.      "  5 

the  sun  streamed  in  at  the  end  -window,  and  "the  Mistress" 
was  not  wont  to  leave  her  favorite  carpet  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  that  bright  intruder ;  and  the  blinds  were  down 
in  the  dining-room,  which  nobody  had  entered  this  morning, 
and  where  even  the  Mistress's  chair  and  little  table  in  the 
corner  window  could  not  keep  a  vicarious  watch  upon  the 
kitchen  door.  It  was  not  needful ;  the  two  maids  were 
very  quiet,  and  not  disposed  to  amuse  themselves.  Marget, 
the  elder  one,  who  was  the  byrewoman,  and  had  responsi 
bilities,  went  about  the  kitchen  very  solemnly,  speaking 
with  a  gravity  which  became  the  occasion  ;  and  Janet,  who 
was  the  house-servant,  and  soft-hearted,  stood  at  the  table, 
washing  cups  and  saucers,  very  slowly,  and  with  the  most 
elaborate  care,  lest  one  of  them  should  tingle  upon  the 
other,  and  putting  up  her  apron  very  often  to  wipe  the 
tears  from  her  eyes.  Outside,  on  the  broad  stone  before 
the  kitchen  door,  a  little  ragged  boy  sat,  crying  bitterly — 
and  no  one  else  was  to  be  seen  about  the  house. 

"  Jenny,"  said  the  elder  maid,  at  last,  "  give  that  bairn  a 
piece,  and  send  him  away.  There's  enow  of  us  to  greet — 
for  what  we're  a'  to  do  for  a  puir  distressed  family,  when 
aince  the  will  o'  God's  accomplished  this  day,  I  canna  tell." 

"Oh,  woman,  dinna  speak!  he'll  maybe  win  through," 
cried  Jenny,  with  renewed  tears. 

Marget  was  calm  in  her  superior  knowledge. 

"I  ken  a  death-bed  from  a  sick-bed,"  she  said,  with 
solemnity ;  "  I've  seen  them  baith — and  weel  I  kent,  a  week 
come  the  morn,  that  it  was  little  good  looking  for  the  doc 
tor,  or  wearying  aye  for  his  physic  time,  or  thinking  the 
next  draught  or  the  next  pill  would  do.  Eh  sirs !  ane  canna 
see  when  it's  ane's  ain  trouble;  if  it  had  been  ony  ither 
man,  the  Mistress  would  have  kent  as  weel  as  me." 

"It's  an  awfu'  guid  judge  that's  never  wrang,"  said 
Jenny,  with  a  little  impatience.  "  He's  a  guid  farther,  and 
a  guid  maister ;  it's  my  hope  he'll  cheat  you  a'  yet,  baith 
the  doctor  and  you." 

Marget  shook  her  head,  and  went  solemnly  to  a  great 
wooden  press,  which  almost  filled  one  side  of  the  kitchen, 
to  get  the  "piece"  which  Jenny  showed  no  intention  of 
bestowing  upon  the  child  at  the  door.  Pondering  for  a 
moment  over  the  basket  of  oat  cakes,  Marget  changed  her 
mind,  and  selected  a  fine,  thin,  flour  one,  from  a  little  pile. 


6  THE    LA.IKD     OF    NOELAW. 

"It's  next  to  funeral  bread,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  vindi 
cation  of  her  choice ;  "  Taramie,  my  man,  the  maister  would 
be  nae  better  if  ye  could, mak'  the  water  grit  with  tears — 
run  away  hame,  like  a  good  bairn;  tell  your  mother  neither 
the  Mistress  nor  me  will  forget  her,  and  ye  can  say,  I'll  let 
her  ken ;  and  there's  a  piece  to  help  ye  hame." 

"  I  dinna  want  ony  pieces — I  want  to  ken  if  he's  better," 
said  the  boy;  "my  mother  said  I  wasna  to  come  back  till 
there  was  good  news." 

"  Whisht,  sirrah,  he'll  hear  you  on  his  death-bed,"  said 
Marget,  "  but  it'll  no  do  you  ony  harm,  bairn ;  the  Mistress 
will  aye  mind  your  mother;  take  your  piece  and  run  away." 

The  child's  only  answer  was  to  bury  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  break  into  a  new  fit  of  crying.  Marget  came  in  again, 
discomfited ;  after  a  while  she  took  out  a  little  wooden  cup 
of  milk  to  him,  and  set  it  down  upon  the  stone  without  a 
word.  She  was  not  sufficiently  hard-hearted  to  frown  upon 
the  child's  grief. 

"  Eh,  woman  Jenny !"  she  cried,  after  an  interval,  "  to 
think  a  man  could  have  so  little  pith,  and  yet  get  in  like 
this  to  folk's  hearts  !" 

"As  if  ye  didna  ken  the  haill  tale,"  cried  Jenny,  with  in 
dignant  tears,  "  how  the  maister  found  the  wean  afield  with 
his  broken  leg,  and  carried  him  hame — and  how  there's  ever 
been  plenty,  baith  milk  and  meal,  for  thae  puir  orphants, 
and  Tammie's  schooling,  and  aye  a  kind  word  to  mend  a' — 
and  yet,  forsooth,  the  bairn  inaunna  greet  when  the  rnais- 
ter's  at  his  latter  end  !" 

"  We'll  a'  have  cause,"  said  Marget,  abruptly ;  "  three 
bonnie  lads  that  might  be  knights  and  earls,  every  one,  and 
no'  a  thing  but  debt  and  dool,  nor  a  trade  to  set  their  hand 
to.  Hand  yer  peace ! — do  ye  think  there's  no  trade  but 
bakers  and  tailorsj  and  the  like  o'  that  ?  and  there's  Hunt- 
ley,  and  Patie,  and  Cosmo,  my  bonnie  bairns ! — there  never 
was  three  Livingstones  like  them,  nor  three  of  ony  other 
name  as  far  as  Tyne  runs — and  the  very  bairn  at  the  door 
has  muckle  to  look  to  as  they !" 

"  But  it's  nae  concern  o'  yours,  or  o'  mine.  I'm  sure  the 
maister  was  aye  very  good  to  me,"  said  Jenny,  retiring  into 
tears,  and  a  non  sequitur. 

"  No,  that's  true — it's  nae  concern  o'  yours — yoi<?re  no' 
an  auld  servant  like  me,"  said  her  companion,  promptly, 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW.  7 

"but  for  mysel'  I've  sung  to  them  a'  in  their  cradles;  I 
would  work  for  them  with  my  hands,  and  thankful ;  but  I 
wouldna  desire  that  of  them  to  let  the  like  o'  me  work,  or 
the  Mistress  toil,  to  keep  them  in  idleset.  Na,  woman — 
I'm  jealous  for  my  bairns — I  would  break  my  heart  if  Hunt- 
ley  was  content  to  be  just  like  his  father  ;  if  either  the  Mis 
tress  or  the  lads  will  listen  to  me,  I'll  gie  my  word  to  send 
them  a'  away  " 

"  Send  them  away — and  their  mother  in  mourning  ?  Oh, 
my  patience  !  what  for  ?" 

"  To  make  their  fortune,"  said  Marget,  and  she  hung  the 
great  pot  on  the  great  iron  hook  above  the  fire,  with  a  sort 
of  heroic  gesture,  which  might  have  been  amusing  under 
other  circumstances — for  Marget  believed  in  making  for 
tunes,  and  had  the  impulse  of  magnificent  hope  at  her 
heart. 

"  Eh,  woman  !  you're  hard-hearted,"  said  her  softer  com 
panion,  "  to  blame  the  Maister  at  his  last,  and  plan  to  leave 
the  Mistress  her  lane  in  the  world !  I  would  make  them 
abide  with  her  to  comfort  her,  if  it  was  me." 

Marget  made  no  answer — she  had  comforted  herself  with 
the  flush  of  fancy  which  pictured  these  three  sons  of  the 
house,  each  completing  his  triumph — and  she  was  the  byre- 
woman  and  had  to  consider  the  cattle,  and  cherish  as  much 
as  remained  of  pastoral  weajth  in  this  impoverished  house. 
She  went  out  with  her  dark  printed  gown  carefully  "kilted" 
over  her  red  and  blue  striped  petticoat,  and  a  pail  in  her 
hand.  She  was  a  woman  of  forty,  a  farm  servant  used  to 
out-of-door  work  and  homely  ways,  and  had  neither  youth  nor 
sentiment  to  soften  her  manners  or  enlarge  her  mind.  Yet 
her  heart  smote  her  when  she  thought  of  the  father  of  the  | 
house,  who  lay  dying  while  she  made  her  criticism  upon 
him,  true  though  it  was. 

"  Has  he  no'  been  a  good  master  to  me  ?  and  would  I 
spare  tears  if  they  could  ease  him  ?"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  rubbed  them  away  from  her  eyes.  "  But  folk  can  greet 
in  the  dark  when  there's  no  work  to  dx),"  she  added,  per 
emptorily,  and  so  went  to  her  dairy  and  her  thoughts. 
Tender-hearted  Jenny  cried  in  the -kitchen,  doing  no  good 
to  any  one  ;  but  up-stairs  in  the  room  of  death,  where  the 
family  waited,  there  were  still  no  tears. 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NORLAW. 


CHAPTER    II. 

HALF  a  mile  below  Norlaw,  "  as  Tyne  runs,"  stood  the 
village  of  Kirkbride.  Tyue  was  but  one  of  the  many  undis 
tinguished  Tynes  which  water  the  south  of  Scotland  and 
the  north  of  England,  a  clear  trout  stream,  rapid  and 
brown,  and  lively,  with  linns  and  pools,  and  bits  of  wood 
land  belonging  to  it,  which  the  biggest  brother  of  its  name 
could  not  excel ;  and  Kirkbride  also  was  but  one  of  a  host 
of  Kirkbrides,  which  preserved  through  the  country,  long 
after  every  stone  of  it  had  mouldered,  the  name  of  some 
little  chapel  raised  to  St.  Bridget.  This  was  an  irregular 
hamlet,  straggling  over  two  mounds  of  rising  ground,  be 
tween  which  Tyne  had  been  pleased  to  make  a  way  for  him 
self.  The  morsel  of  village  street  was  on  one  bank  of  the 
water,  a  row  of  irregular  houses,  in  the  midst  of  which 
flourished  two  shops ;  while  at  the  south  end,  as  it  was  called, 
a  little  inn  projected  across  the  road,  giving,  with  this  corner, 
and  the  open  space  which  it  sheltered,  an  air  of  village  co- 
ziness  to  the  place  which  its  size  scarcely  warranted.  The 
other  bank  of  the  water  was  well  covered  with  trees — 
drooping  birches  and  alders,  not  too  heavy  in  their  foliage 
to  hide  the  half  dozen  cottages  which  stood  at  different 
elevations  on  the  ascending  roafl,  nor  to  vail  at  the  summit 
the  great  jargonel  pear-tree  on  the  gable  wall  of  the  manse, 
which  dwelt  upon  that  height,  looking  down  paternally  and 
with  authority  upon  the  houses  of  the  village.  The  church 
was  further  back,  and  partially  hidden  by  trees,  which,  see 
ing  this  edifice  was  in  the  prevailing  fashion  of  rural  Scot 
tish  churches— a  square  barn  with  a  little  steeple  stuck  upon 
it — was  all  the  better  for  the  landscape.  A  spire  never 
comes  amiss  at  a  little  distance,  when  Nature  has  fair  play 
and  trees  enough — and  the  hillock,  with  its  foliage  and  its 
cottages,  its  cozy  manse  and  spire  among  the  trees,  tilled  with 
thoughts  of  rural  felicity  the  stray  anglers  who  came  now 
and  then  to  fish  in  Tyne  and  consume  the  produce  of  their 
labor  in  the  gable  parlor  of  the  Norlaw  Arms. 

The  doctor  had  just  passed  through  the  village.  On  his 
way  he  had  been  assailed  by  more  than  one  inquiry.  The 
sympathy  of  the  hamlet  was  strong,  and  its  curiosity 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW.  9 

neighborly, — and  more  than   one  woman  retired  into  her 
cottage,  shaking  her  head  over  the  news  she  received. 

"  Keep  us  a' !  Norlaw !  I  mind  him  afore  he  could 
either  walk  or  speak — and  then  I  was  in  service,  in  the  auld 
mistress's  time,  at  Me'mar,"  said  one  of  the  village  grand 
mothers,  who  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  a  very  little 
house,  where  the  village  mangle  was  in  operation.  The 
old  woman  stood  at  the  door,  looking  after  the  doctor,  as 
he  trotted  oft'  on  his  stout  pony ;  she  was  speaking  to  her 
self,  and  not  to  the  little  audience  behind,  upon  whom,  how 
ever,  she  turned,  as  the  wayfarer  disappeared  from  her  eyes, 
and  laying  down  her  bundle  on  the  table,  with  a  sigh, 
"Eh,  Merran  Hastie !"  she  exclaimed,  "he's  been  guid  to 
you." 

The  person  thus  addressed  needed  no  further  inducement 
to  put  her  apron  to  her  eyes.  The  room  was  very  small, 
half  occupied  by  the  mangle,  which  a  strong  country  girl 
was  turning ;  and  even  in  this  summer  day  the  apartment 
was  not  over  bright,  seeing  that  the  last  arrival  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  that  the  little  window  was  half  covered  by  a 
curtain  of  coarse  green  gauze.  Two  other  village  matrons 
had  come  with  their  "  claes,"  to  talk  over  the  danger  of 
their  neighbor  and  landlord,  and  to  comfort  the  poor  widow 
who  had  found  an  active  benefactor  in  "  Norlaw."  She 
was  comforted,  grateful  and  grieved  though  she  was ;  and 
the  gossips,  though  they  looked  grave,  entered  con  amore 
into  the  subject ;  what  the  Mistress  was  likely  to  do,  and 
how  the  family  would  be  "  left." 

"  My  man  says  they'll  a'  be  roupit,  baith  stock  and  plen 
ishing,"  said  the  mason's  wife.  "Me'mar  himsel'  gave  our 
John  an  insight  into  how  it  was.  I  judge  he  maun  have 
lent  Norlaw  siller ;  for  when  he  saw  the  dry-stane  dike, 
where  his  ground  marches  with  Norlaw,  he  gave  ane  of  his 
humphs,  and  says  he  to  John,  '  A  guid  kick  would  drive  it 
down  ;'  says  he,  '  it'll  last  out  his  time,  and  for  my  part,  I'm 
no  a  man  for  small  fields ;'  so  grannie,  there's  a  family  less, 
you  may  say  already,  in  the  country-side." 

"  I'll  tarry  till  I  see  it,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  the  ane  of 
his  family  that's  likest  Norlaw,  is  his  youngest  son  ;  and  if 
Me'mar  himsel',  or  the  evil  ane,  his  marrow,  get  clean  the 
better  of  Huntley  and  Patrick,  not  to  say  the  Mistress,  it'll 
be  a  marvel  to  me." 

1* 


10  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

"  Norlaw  was  aye  an  unthrift,"  said  Mrs.  Mickle,  who 
kept  the  grocer's  shop  in  Kirkbride ;  "  nobody  could  tell, 
when  he  was  a  young  man,  how  he  got  through  his  siller. 
It  aye  burnt  his  pockets  till  he  got  it  spent,  and  ye  never 
could  say  what  it  was  on." 

"  Oh,  whisht !"  exclaimed  the  widow  ;  "  me,  and  the  like 
of  me,  can  tell  well  what  it  was  on." 

"  Haud  a'  your  tongues,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  if  any 
body  kens  about  Norlaw,  it's  me ;  I  was  bairn's-maid  at 
Me'mar,  in  the  time  of  the  auld  mistress,  as  a'  the  town 
kens,  and  I'm  well  acquaint  with  a'  his  pedigree,  and  mind 
him  a'  his  life,  and  the  truth's  just  this,  whatever  any  body 
may  say.  He  didna  get  his  ain  fancy  when  he  was  a  young 
lad,  and  he's  never  been  the  same  man  ever  sinsyne." 

"  Eh !  was  Norlaw  crossed  in  love  ?"  said  the  girl  at  the 
mangle,  staying  her  grinding  to  listen ;  "  but  I'm  no  sorry 
for  him  ;  a  man  that  wasna  content  with  the  Mistress  doesna 
deserve  a  good  wife." 

"  Ay,  lass ;  you're  coming  to  have  your  ain  thoughts  on 
such  like  matters,  are  ye  ?"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  but  take 
you  my  word,  Susie,  that  a  woman  may  be  the  fairest  and 
the  failhfu'est  that  ever  stood  on  a  hearthstane,  but  if  she's 
no  her  man's  fancy,  she's  nae  guid  there." 

u  Susie's  very  right,"  said  the  mason's  wife  ;  "  he  wasna 
blate !  for  a  better  wife  than  the  Mistress  never  put  her  hand 
into  ony  house wifeskcp,  and  it's  her  that's  to  be  pitied  with 
a  man  like  yon;  and  our  John  says — " 

"  I  kent  about  Norlaw  before  ever  you  were  born,  or 
John  either,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  and  what  I  say's  fac, 
and  what  you  say's  fancy.  Norlaw  had  never  a  thought  in 
his  head,  from  ten  to  iive-and-twenty,  but  half  of  it  was  for 
auld  Me'mar's  ae  daughter.  Tin  no  saying  he's  a  strong 
man  of  his  nature,  like  them  that  clear  their  ain  road,  or 
make  their  ain  fortune  ;  but  he  might  have  held  his  ain  bet 
ter  than  he's  ever  done,  if  he  had  been  matched  to  his  fancy 
when  he  was  a  young  lad,  and  had  a'  his  life  before  him ; 
that's  just  what  I've  to  say." 

"  Weel,  grannie,  its  awfu'  hard,"  said  the  mason's  wife ; 
"the  Mistress  was  a  bonnie  woman  in  her  day,  and  a  spirit 
that  would  face  onything ;  and  to  wear  out  her  life  for  a  man 
that  wasna  heeding  about  her,  and  be  left  in  her  prime  a  dow- 
erless  widow ! — Ye  may  say  what  ye  like — but  I  wouldna 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOELAW.  11 

thole  the  like  for  the  best  man  in  the  country-side,  let  alone 
Norlaw." 

"  ISTaebody  would,  if  they  kent,"  said  the  oracle,  "  but 
what's  a  woman  to  do,  if  she's  married  and  bound,  and 
bairns  at  her  foot,  before  she  ever  finds  out  what's  been  ly 
ing  a'  the  time  in  her  man's  heart  ?" 

"  Then  it  was  just  a.sharne !"  cried  Susie,  at  the  mangle, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  a  burning  shame !  Eh  Grannie,  to 
find  it  out  then  !  I  would  rather  dee  !" 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  old  woman,  shaking  her  head  ;  "  young 
folk  think  so — but  that's  life." 

"  I'll  never  think  weel  of  Norlaw  again — I'll  never  believe  a 
lad  mair  !  they  might  be  thinking  ony  mischief  in  their  heart," 
cried  Susie,  hastily  putting  up  her  particular  bundle,  and 
dashing  a  tear  off  her  hot  cheek.  "  They  can  greet  for  him 
that  likes  ;  I'll  think  of  naebody  but  the  Mistress — no  me  !" 

Whereupon  this  keen  sympathizer,  who  had  some  thoughts 
of  her  own  on  the  matter,  rushed  forth,  disturbing  the  elder 
group,  whose  interest  was  calmer*  and  more  speculative. 

"  Aweel,  aweel !  we're  a'  frail  and  full  of  shortcomings," 
said  the  widow ;  "  but  naebody  kens  how  kind  Norlaw  has 
been  to  me.  My  little  Tammie's  away  somegate  about  the  \ 
house  now.  I  thought  the  bairn's  heart  would  break  when 
he  heard  the  news  first.  I'm  sure  there's  no  one  hour,  night 
or  day,  that  he  wouldna  lay  down  his  life  for  Norlaw." 

"  He  was  aye  a  kind  man  and  weel  likit — most  folk  are 
that  spend  their  siller  free,  and  take  a'  thing  easy,"  said  Mrs. 
Mickle,  with  a  sigh  which  was  partly  for  that  weakness  of 
human  nature,  and  partly  for  the  departing  spirit. 

Then  new  customers  began  to  come  in,  and  the  group  dis 
persed.  By  this  time  it  was  getting  'late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  John  Mellerstone's  wife  had  to  bethink  herself  of  her 
husband's  supper,  and  Mrs.  Mickle  of  her  evening  cup  of 
tea.  The  sun  had  begun  to  slant  over  the  face  of  the  brae 
opposite  to  them,  brightening  the  drooping  bushes  with 
touches  of  gold,  and  glowing  upon  the  white  gable  wall  of 
the  manse,  obscured  with  the  wealthy  branches  of  its  jargo- 
nel  tree.  The  minister  was  making  his  way  thoughtfully  up 
the  path,  with  his  hat  over  his  face  a  little,  and  his  hands 
under  the  square  skirts  of  his  coat,  never  pausing  to  look 
down,  as  was  his  custom  when  his  mind  was  at  ease.  He, 
too,  had  been  at  Norlaw,  and  his  thoughts  were  still  there. 


12  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  sun  was  shining  into  the  west  chamber  at  Norlaw. 
It  was  the  room  immediately  over  the  dining-room,  a  large 
apartment,  paneled  and  painted  in  ajfaint  green  color,  with 
one  window  to  the  front  and  one  to  the  side  of  the  house. 
The  side  window  looked  immediately  upon  the  old  castle, 
and  on  the  heavy  masses  of  blunt-leaved  ivy  which  hung 
in  wild  festoons  everywhere  from  this  front  of  the  ruin ;  and 
the  sun  shone  in  gloriously  to  the  sick  chamber,  with  a 
strange  mockery  of  the  weakness  and  the  sorrow  there. 
This  bed  was  what  used  to  be  called  a  "  tent-bed,"  with 
heavy  curtains  of  dark  brown  moreefi,  closely  drawn  at  the 
foot,  but  looped  up  about  the  pillows.  At  the  side  nearest 
the  sunshine,  the  Mistress,  whose  place  had  been  there  for 
weeks,  stood  by  the  bed  measuring  out  some  medicine  for 
the  sufferer.  A  fortnight's  almost  ceaseless  watching  had 
not  sufficed  to  pale  the  cheek  of  health,  or  waste  the  vigor 
of  this  wife,  who  was  so  soon  to  be  a  widow.  Her  fresh,  mid 
dle-aged,  matronly  bloom,  her  dress  careful  and  seemly,  her 
anxious  and  troubled  brow,  where  deep  solicitude  and  hope 
had  scarcely  given  way  to  the  dread  certainty  which  every 
body  else  acknowledged,  made  a  very  strange  contrast,  in 
deed,  to  the  wasted,  dying,  eager  face  which  lay  among  those 
pillows,  with  already  that  immovable  yellow  pallor  on  its  fea 
tures  which  never  passes  away ;  a  long,  thin  hand,  wasted 
to  the  bone,  was  on  the  coverlid,  but  the  sufferer  looked  up, 
with  his  eager,  large  black  eyes  toward  the  medicine  glass 
in  his  wife's  hand  with' a  singular  eagerness.  He  knew,  at 
last,  that  he  was  dying,  and  even  in  the  solemnity  of  those 
last  moments,  this  weak,  graceful  mind,  true  to  the  instincts 
of  its  nature,  thought  with  desire  and  anxiety  of  dying 
well. 

The  three  sons  of  the  house  were  in  the  room  watching 
with  their  mother.  Huntley,  who  could  scarcely  keep  still, 
even  in  the  awe  of  this  shadow  of  death,  stood  by  the  front 
window,  often  drawing  close  to  the  bed,  but  unable  to  con 
tinue  there.  The  second,  who  was  his  mother's  son,  a 
healthful,  ruddy,  practical  lad,  kept  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  bed,  ready  to  help  his  mother  in  moving  the  patient. 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  13 

And  at  the  foot,  concealed  by  the  curtains,  a  delicate  boy 
of  fifteen,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  sat  upon  an  old 
square  ottoman,  observing  nothing.  This  was  Cosmo,  the 
youngest  and  favorite,  the  only  one  of  his  children  who 
really  resembled  Norlaw. 

The  caprice  of  change  was  strong  upon  the  dying  man ; 
he  wanted  his  position  altered  twenty  times  in  half  an  hour. 
He  had  not  any  thing  much  to  say,  yet  he  was  hard  to  please 
for  the  manner  of  saying  it ;  and  longed,  half  in  a  human 
and  tender  yearning  for  remembrance,  and  half  with  the 
weakness  of  his  character,  that  his  children  should  never 
forget  these  last  words  of  his,  nor  the  circumstances  of  his 
dying.  He  was  a  good  man,  but  he  carried  the  defects 
of  his  personality  with  him  to  the  very  door  of  heaven. 
When,  at  last,  the  pillows  were  arranged  round  him,  so  as 
to  raise  him  on  his  bed  in  the  attitude  he  wished,  he  called 
his  children,  in  his  trembling  voice.  Huntley  came  forward 
from  the  window,  with  a  swelling  heart,  scarcely  able  to 
keep  down  the  tears  of  his  first  grief.  Patrick  stood  by  the 
bed-side,  holding  down  his  head,  with  a  stubborn  compo 
sure — and  Cosmo,  stealing  forward,  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  and  hid  his  sobbing  in  the  coverlid.  They  were  all 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  stood  the  mother,  the  care  on 
her  brow  blanching  into  conviction,  and  all  her  tremulous 
anxiety  calmed  with  a  determination  not  to  disturb  this  last 
scene.  It  was  the  last.  Hope  could  not  stand  before  the 
look  of  death  upon  that  face. 

"My  sons,"  said  Norlaw,  "I  am  just  dying;  but  I  know 
where  I  am  in  this  strait,  trusting  in  my  Saviour.  You'll 
remember  I  said  this,  when  I'm  gone." 

There  was  a  pause.  Cosmo  sobbed  aloud  in  the  silence, 
clinging  to  the  coverlid,  and  Huntley's  breast  heaved  high 
with  a  tumultuous  motion — but  there  was  not  a  word  said 
to  break  the  monologue  of  the  father,  who  was  going  away. 

"And  now  you'll  have  no  father  to  guide  you  further," 
he  continued,  with  a  strange  pity  for  them  in  his  voice. 
"There's  your  mother,  at  my  side — as  true  a  wife  and  as 
faithful,  as  ever  a  man  had  for  a  blessing.  Boys,  I  leave 
your  mother,  for  her  jointure,  the  love  you've  had  for  me. 
Let  her  have  it  all — all — make  amends  to  her.  Martha, 
I've  not  been  the  man  I  might  have  been  to  you." 

These  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone  of  sudden  com- 


14  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

punction,  strangely  unlike  the  almost  formal  dignity  of  the 
first  part  of  his  address,  and  he  turned  his  eager,  dying  eyes 
to  her,  with  a  startled  apprehension  of  this  truth,  foreign  to 
all  his  previous  thoughts.  She  could  not  have  spoken,  to 
save  his  life.  She  took  his  hand  between  hers,  with  a  low 
groan,  and  held  it,  looking  at  him  with  a  pitiful,  appealing 
face.  The  self-accusation  was  like  an  injury  to  her,  and  lie 
was  persuaded  to  feel  it  so,  and  to  return  to  the  current  of 
his  thoughts. 

"  Let  your  mother  be  your  counselor  ;  she  has  ever  been 
mine,"  he  said  once  more,  with  his  sad,  dying  dignity.  "  I 
say  nothing  about  your  plans,  because  plans  are  ill  adjuncts 
to  a  death-bed  ;  but  you'll  do  your  best,  every  one,  and  keep 
your  name  without  blemish,  and  fear  God  and  honor  your 
mother.  If  I  were  to  speak  for  a  twelvemonth  I  could  not 
find  more  to  say." 

Again  a  pause ;  but  this  time,  besides  the  sobs  of  Cosmo, 
Patrick's  tears  were  dropping,  like  heavy  drops  of  rain,  upon 
the  side  of  the  bed,  and  Huntley  crushed  the  curtain  in  his 
hand  to  support  himself,  and  only  staid  here  quite  against 
his  nature  by  strong  compulsion  of  his  will.  Whether  he 
deserved  it  or  not,  this  man's  fortune,  all  his  life,  had  been 
to  be  loved. 

"This  night,  Huntley  will  be  Livingstone  of  Norlaw," 
continued  the  father ;  "  but  the  world  is  fading  out  of  my 
sight,  boys — only  I  mind,  and  you  know,  that  things  have 
gone  ill  with  us  for  many  a  year — make  just  the  best  that 
can  be  made,  and  never  give  up  this  house  and  the  old  name 
of  your  fathers.  Me'mar  will  try  his  worst  against  you; 
ay,  I  ought  to  say  more  ;  but  I'm  wearing  faint — I'm  not 
able ;  you'll  have  to  ask  your  mother.  Martha,  give  me 
something  to  keep  me  up  a  moment  more." 

She  did  so  hurriedly,  with  a  look  of  pain ;  but  when  he 
had  taken  a  little  wine,  the  sick  man's  eye  wandered. 

"  I  had  something  more  to  say,"  he  repeated,  faintly ; 
"  never  mind — your  mother  will  tell  you  every  thing ; — serve 
God,  and  be  good  to  your  mother,  and  mind  that  I  die  in 
faith.  Bairns,  when  ye  come  to  your  latter  end,  take  heed 
to  set  your  foot  fast  upon  the  rock,  that  I  may  find  you  all 
again." 

They  thought  he  had  ended  now  his  farewell  to  them. 
They  laid  him  down  tenderly,  and,  with  awe  and  hidden 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOEL  AW.  15 

tears,  watched  how  the  glow  of  sunset  faded  and  the  even 
ing  gray  stole  in  over  that  pallid  face  which,  for  the  moment, 
was  all  the  world  to  their  eyes.  Sometimes,  he  said  a  faint 
word  to  his  wife,  who  sat  holding  his  hand.  He  was  con 
scious,  and  calm,  and  departing.  His  sins  had  been  like  a 
child's  sins — capricious,  wayward,  fanciful  transgressions. 
He  had  never  harmed  any  one  but  himself  and  his  own 
household — remorseful  recollections  did  not  trouble  him— 
and,  weak  as  he  was,  all  his  life  long  he  had  kept  tender  in 
his  heart  a  child's  faith.  He  was  dying  like  a  Christian, 
though  not  even  his  faith  and  comfort,  nor  the  great 
shadow  of  death  which  he  was  meeting,  could  sublime  his 
last  hours  out  of  nature.  God  does  not  always  make  a 
Christian's  death-bed  sublime.  But  he  was  fast  going  where 
there  is  no  longer  any  weakness,  and  the  calm,  of  the  even 
ing  rest  was  on  the  ending  of  his  life. 

Candles  had  been  brought  softly  into  the  room ;  the  moon 
rose,  the  night  wore  on,  but  they  still  waited.  No  one 
could  withdraw  from  that  watch,  which  it  is  agony  to  keep, 
and  yet  worse  agony  to  be  debarred  from  keeping,  and 
when  it  was  midnight,  the  pale  face  began  to  flush  by 
intervals,  and  the  fainting  frame  to  grow  restless  and 
uneasy.  Cosmo,  poor  boy,  struck  with  the  change,  rose  up 
to  look  at  him,  with  a  wild,  sudden  hope  that  he  was 
getting  better ;  but  Cosmo  shrunk  appalled  at  the  sudden 
cry  which  burst  as  strong  as  if  perfect  health  had  uttered 
it  from  the  heaving,  panting  heart  of  his  father. 

"Huritley,  Huntley,  Huntley!"  cried  the  dying  man,  but 
it  was  not  his  son  he  called.  "Do  I  know  her  name  ?  She's 
but  Mary  of  Melmar — evermore  Mary  to  me — and  the  will 
is  there — in  the  mid  chamber.  Aye  ! — where  is  she  ? — your 
mother  will  tell  you  all — it's  too  late  for  me." 

The  last  words  were  irresolute  and  confused,  dropping 
back  into  the  faint  whispers  of  death.  When  he  began  to 
speak,  his  wife  had  risen  from  her  seat  by  the  bed-side — her 
cheeks  flushed,  she  held  his  hand  tight,  and  over  the  face  of 
her  tenderness  came  an  indescribable  cloud  of  mortification, 
of  love  aggrieved  and  impatient,  which  could  not  be  con 
cealed.  She  did  not  speak,  but  stood  watching  him,  holding 
his  hand  close  in  her  own,  even  after  he  was  silent — and  not 
even  when  the  head  sank  lower  down  among  the  pillows, 
and  the  eyes  grew  dim,  and  the  last  hour  came,  did  the 


16  THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW. 

watcher  resume  the  patient  seat  which  she  had  kept  so 
long.  She  stood  by  him  with  a  mind  disquieted,  doing 
every  thing  that  she  could  do — quick  to  see,  and  tender  to 
minister ;  but  the  sacramental  calm  of  the  vigil  was  broken 
— and  the  widow  still  stood  by  the  bed  when  the  early  sum 
mer  light  came  in  over  her  shoulder,  to  show  how,  with  the 
night,  this  life  was  over,  and  every  thing  was  changed. 
Then  she  fell  down  by  the  bed-side,  scarcely  able  to  move 
her  strained  limbs,  and  struck  to  the  heart  with  the  chill  of 
her  widowhood. 

It  was  all  over — all  over — and  the  new  day,  in  a  blaze  of 
terrible  sunshine,  and  the  new  solitude  of  life,  were  to  begin 
together.  But  her  sons,  as  they  were  forced  to  withdraw 
from  the  room  where  one  was  dead,  and  one  lost  in  the  first 
blind  agony  of  a  survivor,  did  not  know  what  last  pang  of  a 
long  bitterness  that  was,  which  struck  its  final  sting,  to  ag 
gravate  all  her  grievous  trouble,  into  their  mother's  heart. 


CHAPTEK   IV. 

THOSE  slow  days  of  household  gloom  and  darkness,  when 
death  lies  in  the  house,  and  every  thought  and  every  sound 
still  bears  an  involuntary  reference  to  the  solemn  inmate, 
resting  unconscious  of  them  all,  went  slowly  over  the  roof 
of  Norlaw.  Sunday  came,  doubly  mournful ;  a  day  in  which 
Scottish  decorum  demanded  that  no  one  should  stir  abroad, 
even  to  church,  and  which  hung  indescribably  heavy  in  those 
curtained  rooms,  and  through  the  unbroken  stillness  of  its 
leisure,  upon  the  three  youths  who  had  not  even  their  moth 
er's  melancholy  society  to  help  them  through  the  day.  The 
Mistress  was  in  her  own  room,  closely  shut  up  with  her  Bible 
and  her  sorrow,  taking  that  first  Sabbath  of  her  widowhood, 
a  solitary  day  of  privilege  and  indulgence,  for  her  own  grief. 
Not  a  sound  was  audible  in  the  house;  Jenny,  who  could  be 
best  spared,  and  who  was  somewhat  afraid  of  the  solemn 
quietness  of  Norlaw,  had  been  sent  away  early  this  morning, 
to  spend  the  Sabbath  with  her  mother,  in  Kirkbride,  and 
Marget  sat  alone  in  the  kitchen,  with  a  closed  door  and  par- 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  17 

tially  shuttered  window,  reading  to  herself  half  aloud  from 
the  big  Bible  in  her  lap.  In  the  perfect  stillness  it  was  pos 
sible  to  hear  the  monotonous  hum  of  her  half-whispering 
voice,  and  sometimes  the  dull  fall  of  the  ashes  on  the  kitchen 
hearth,  but  not  a  sound  besides. 

The  blinds  were  all  down  in  the  dining-room,  and  the 
lower  half  of  the  shutters  closed.  Though  the  July  sun 
made  triumphant  daylight  even  in  spite  of  this,  it  was  such 
a  stifling,  closed-in,  melancholy  light,  bright  upon  the  upper 
walls  and  the  roof,  but  darkened  and  close  around  the  lads, 
that  the  memory  of  it  never  quite  passed  out  of  their  hearts. 
This  room,  too,  was  paneled  and  painted  of  that  dull  drab 
color,  which  middle-class  dining-rooms  even  now  delight  in ; 
there  were  no  pictures  on  the  walls,  for  the  family  of  Nor- 
law  were  careless  of  ornaments,  like  most  families  of  their 
country  and  rank.  A  dull  small  clock  upon  the  black  mar 
ble  mantel-piece,  and  a  great  china  jar  on  the  well-polished, 
old-fashioned  sideboard,  were  the  only  articles  in  which  any 
thing  beyond  use  was  even  aimed  at.  The  chairs  were  of 
heavy  mahogany  and  hair-cloth — a  portion  of  the  long  din- 
ing-table,  with  a  large  leaf  folded  down,  very  near  as  black 
as  ebony,  and  polished  like  a  mirror,  stood  between  the  front 
windows — and  the  two  round  ends  of  this  same  dining-table 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  large  enough  for  family 
purposes,  and  covered  with  a  red  and  blue  table-cover. 
There  was  a  heavy  large  chintz  easy-chair  at  the  fire-place, 
and  a  little  table  supporting  a  covered  work-basket  in  the 
corner  window — yet  the  room  had  not  been  used  to  look  a 
dull  room,  heavy  and  dismal  though  it  was  to-day. 

The  youngest  boy  sat  by  the  table,  leaning  over  a  large 
family  Bible,  full  of  quaint  old  pictures.  Cosmo  saw  the 
pictures  without  seeing  them — he  was  leaning  both  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  supporting  his  head  with  a  pair  of  long, 
fair  hands,  which  his  boy's  jacket,  which  he  had  outgrown, 
left  bare  to  the  wrists.  His  first  agony  of  grief  had  fallen 
into  a  dull  aching;  his  eyes  were  observant  of  the  faintest 
lines  of  those  familiar  wood-cuts,  yet  he  could  not  have  told 
what  was  the  subject  of  one  of  them,  though  he  knew  them 
all  by  heart.  He  was  fair-haired,  pale,  and  delicate,  with 
sensitive  features,  and  dark  eyes,  like  his  father's,  which  had 
a  strange  effect  in  contrast  with  the  extreme  lightness  of  his 
hair  and  complexion.  He  was  the  tender  boy — the  mother's 


18  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOBLAW. 

child  of  the  household,  and  it  was  Cosmo  of  whom  the  vil 
lage  gossips  spoke,  when  they  took  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  only  his  youngest  son  was  like  Norlaw. 

Next  to  Cosmo,  sitting  idly  on  a  chair,  watching  how  a 
stream  of  confined  sunshine  came  in  overhead,  at  the  side 
of  the  blind,  was  Huntley,  the  eldest  son.  He  was  very 
dark,  very  ruddy,  with  close  curls  of  black  hair,  and  eyes 
of  happy  hazel-brown.  Heretofore,  Huntley  Livingstone's 
principal  characteristic  had  been  a  total  incapacity  to  keep 
still.  For  many  a  year  Marget  had  lamented  over  him,  that 
he  would  not  "  behave  himself,"  and  even  the  Mistress  had 
spoken  her  mind  only  too  often  on  the  same  subject. 
Huntley  would  not  join,  with  gravity  and  decorum,  even 
the  circle  of  evening  visitors  who  gathered  on  unfrequent 
occasions  round  the  fireside  of  Norlaw.  He  had  perpetually 
something  on  hand  to  keep  him  in  motion,  and  if  nothing 
better  was  to  be  had,  would  rummage  through  lumber-room 
and  family  treasury,  hunting  up  dusty  old  sets  of  newspapers 
and  magazines,  risking  the  safety  of  precious  old  hereditary 
parchments,  finding  a  hundred  forgotten  trifles,  which  he 
had  nothing  to  do  with.  So  that  it  was  rare,  even  on  winter 
evenings,  to  find  Huntley  at  rest  in  the  family  circle ;  it  was 
his  wont  to  appear  in  it  at  intervals  bringing  something  with 
him  which  had  no  right  to  be  there — to  be  ordered  off  per 
emptorily  by  his  mother  with  the  intruding  article ;  to  be 
heard,  all  the  evening  through,  knocking  in  nails,  and  put- 
ting  up  shelves  for  Marget,  or  making  some  one  of  the 
countless  alterations,  which  had  always  to  be  made  in  his 
own  bed-chamber  and  private  sanctuary;  and  finally,  to  re 
appear  for  the  family  worship,  during  which  he  kept  as  still 
as  his  nature  would  permit,  and  the  family  supper,  at  which 
Huntley's  feats,  in  cutting  down  great  loaves  of  bread,  and 
demolishing  oat-cakes,  were  a  standing  joke  in  the  house 
hold.  This  was  the  old  Huntley,  when  all  was  well  in  Nor 
law.  Now  he  sat  still,  watching  that  narrow  blade  of  sun 
shine,  burning  in  compressed  and  close  by  the  side  of  the 
blind ;  it  was  like  his  own  nature,  in  those  early  days  of 
household  grief. 

Patrick  was  a  less  remarkable  boy  than  either  of  his  bro 
thers  ;  he  was  most  like  Huntley,  and  had  the  same  eyes, 
and  the  same  crisp,  short  curls  of  black  hair.  But  Patrick 
had  a  medium  in  him ;  he  did  what  was  needful,  with  the 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  19 

quickest  practical  sense  ;  he  was  strong  in  his  perception  of 
right  and  justice ;  so  strong,  that  the  Quixotry  of  boyish 
enthusiasm  had  never  moved  him ;  he  was  not,  in  short,  a 
describable  person  ;  at  this  present  moment,  he  was  steadily 
occupied  with  a  volume  of  sermons  ;  they  were  extremely 
heavy  metal,  but  Patrick  went  on  with  them,  holding  fast  his 
mind  by  that  anchor  of  heaviness.  It  was  not  that  his 
gravity  was  remarkable,  or  his  spiritual  appreciation  great ; 
but  something  was  needful  to  keep  the  spirit  afloat  in  that  at 
mosphere  of  death ;  the  boys  had  been  "  too  well  brought 
up"  to  think  of  profaning  the  Sabbath  with  light  literature  ; 
and  amusing  themselves  while  their  father  lay  dead  was  a 
sin  quite  as  heinous.  So  Patrick  Livingstone  read,  with  a 
knitted  brow,  sermons  of  the  old  Johnsonian  period,  and 
Cosmo  pondered  the  quaint  Bible  woodcuts,  and  Huntley 
watched  the  sunshine  ;  and  they  had  nqt  spoken  a  word  to 
each  other  for  at  least  an  hour. 

Huntley  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  wish  to-morrow  were  come  and  gone,"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly,  rising  up  and  taking  a  rapid  turn  through  the 
room  ;  "  a  week  of  this  would  kill  me." 

Cosmo  looked  up,  with  an  almost  feminine  reproof  in  his 
tearful  black  eyes. 

"  Well,  laddie,"  said  the  elder  brother ;  "  dinna  look  at 
me  with  these  e'en !  If  it  would  have  lengthened  out  his 
days  an  hour,  or  saved  him  a  pang,  would  I  have  spared 
years  to  do  it  ?  but  what  is  he  heeding  for  all  this  gloom 
and  silence  now  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  second  brother,  "  but  the  neighbors 
care,  and  so  does  my  mother ;  it's  nothing,  but  it's  all  we 
can  give — and  he  would  have  heeded  and  been  pleased,  had 
he  thought  beforehand  on  what  we  should  be  doing  now." 

It  was  so  true,  that  Huntley  sat  down  again  overpowered. 
Yes,  he  would  have  been  pleased  to  think  of  every  particular 
of  the  "  respect"  which  belonged  to  the  dead.  The  closed 
houses,  the  darkened  rooms,  the  funeral  train  ;  that  tender 
human  spirit  would  have  clung  to  every  one  of  them  in  his 
thoughts,  keeping  the  warmth  of  human  sympathy  close  to 
him  to  the  latest  possibility,  little,  little  though  he  knew 
about  them  now. 

"  What  troubles  me  is  standing  still,"  said  Huntley,  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  can  not  tell  what's  belbre  us  ;  I  don't  think  even 


20  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOELAW. 

my  mother  knows ;  I  believe  it's  worse  than  we  can  think 
of;  and  we've  neither  friends,  nor  money,  nor  influence. 
Here  are  we  three  Livingstones,  and  I'm  not  twenty,  and 
we've  debts  in  money  to  meet,  and  mortgages  on  the  land, 
and  nothing  in  the  world  but  our  hands  and  our  heads,  and 
what  strength  and  wit  God  has  given  us.  I'm  not  grumb 
ling — but  to  think  upon  it  all,  and  to  think  now  that — that 
he's  gone,  and  we're  alone  and  for  ourselves — and  to  sit 
still  neither  doing  nor  planning,  it's  that  that  troubles  me !" 

"  Huntley,  it's^Sabbath  day!"  said  Cosmo. 

"Ay,  I  ken  !  it's  Sabbath  and  rest,  but  not  to  us,"  cried  the 
young  man  ;  "  here's  me,  that  should  have  seen  my  way — 
I'm  old  enough — me  that  should  have  known  where  I  was 
going,  and  how  I  was  going,  and  been  able  to  spare  a  hand 
for  you  ;  and  I'm  the  biggest  burden  of  all ;  a  man  without 
a  trade  to  turn  his  hand  to,  a  man  without  knowledge  in 
his  head  or  skill  in  his  fingers — and  to  sit  still  and  never 
say  a  word,  and  see  them  creeping  down,  day  by  day,  and 
every  thing  put  back  as  if  life  could  be  put  back  and  wait. 
True,  Patie !  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?" 

"  Make  up  your  mind,  and  wait  till  it's  time  to  tell  it," 
said  Patie,  without  either  reproof  or  sympathy  ;  but  Cosmo 
was  more  moved — he  came  to  his  eldest  brother  with  a  soft 
step. 

"  Huntley,"  said  Cosmo,  in  the  soft  speech  of  their  child 
hood,  "  what  makes  ye  speak  about  a  trade,  you  that  are 
Livingstone  of  Norlaw  ?  It's  for  us  to  gang  and  seek  our 
fortunes  ;  you're  the  chief  of  your  name,  and  the  lands  are 
yours — they  canna  ruin  yow,  Huntley.  I  see  the  difference 
mysel',  the  folks  see  it  in  the  country-side  ;  and  as  for  Patie 
and  me,  we'll  seek  our  fortunes — we're  only  the  youngest 
sons,  it's  our  inheritance ;  but  Noiiaw,  and  home,  and  the 
name,  are  with  you." 

This  appeal  had  the  strangest  effect  upon  Huntley;  it 
seemed  to  dissipate  in  an  instant  all  the  impatience  and  ex 
citement  of  the  youth's  grief;  he  put  his  arm  round  Cosmo, 
with  a  sudden  melting  of  heart  and  countenance. 

"  Do  ye  hear  him,  Patie  ?"  cried  Huntley,  with  tears ; 
"he  thinks  home's  home  forever,  because  the  race  has  been 
here  a  thousand  years ;  he  thinks  I'm  a  prince  delivering 
my  kingdom !  Cosmo,  the  land's  gone  ;  I  know  there's  not 
an  acre  ours  after  to-morrow.  I've  found  it  out,  bit  by  bit, 


THE    LAIKD     OF   NOELA.W.  21 

though  nobody  said  a  word  ;  but  we'll  save  the  house,  and 
the  old  castle,  if  we  should  never  have  a  penny  over,  for   1 
mother  and  you." 

The  boy  stared  aghast  into  his  brother's  face.  The  land  ! 
it  had  been  Cosmo's  dream  by  night,  and  thought  by  day. 
The  poetic  child  had  made,  indeed,  a  heroic  kingdom  and 
inheritance  out  of  that  little  patrimonial  farm.  Notwith 
standing,  he  turned  to  Patie  for  confirmation,  but  found  no 
comfort  there. 

"As  you  think  best,  Huntley,"  said  the  second  son,  "  but 
what  is  a  name  ?  My  mother  will  care  little  for  N"orlaw 
when  we  are  gone,  and  the  name  of  a  landed  family  has 
kept  us  poor.  I've  found  things  out  as  well  as  you.  I 
thought  it  would  be  best  to  part  with  all." 

"  It  was  almost  his  last  word,"  said  Huntley,  sadly. 

"Ay,  but  he  could  not  tell,"  said  the  stout-hearted  boy ; 
"  he  was  of  another  mind  from  you  or  me ;  he  did  not 
think  that  our  strength  and  our  lives  were  for  better  use 
than  to  be  wasted  on  a  word.  What's  ISToiiaw  Castle  to  us, 
more  than  a  castle  in  a  book  ?  Ay,  Cosmo,  it's  true. 
Would  you  drag  a  burden  of  debt  at  Huntley's  feet  for  the 
sake  of  an  acre  of  corn-land,  or  four  old  walls  ?  We've 
been  kept  down  and  kept  in  prison,  us  and  our  forbears,  be 
cause  of  Norlaw.  I  say  we  should  go  free." 

"And  I,"  cried  Cosmo,  lifting  his  long,  white  hand  in  sud 
den  passion,  "  I,  if  Huntley  does  not  care  for  the  name,  nor 
for  my  father's  last  wish,  nor  for  the  house  of  our  ancestors  ; 
I  will  never  rest  night  nor  day,  though  I  break  my  heart  or 
lose  my  life,  till  I  redeem  Norlaw  !" 

Huntley,  whose  arm  still  rested  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 
drew  him  closer,  with  a  look  which  had  caught  a  tender, 
sympathetic,  half-compassionate  enthusiasm  from  his. 

"  We'll  save  Norlaw  for  my  father's  son,"  said  the  elder 
brother ;  and,  young  as  Huntley  was,  he  looked  with  eyes 
full  of  love  and  pity  upon  this  boy,  who  inherited  more  from 
his  father  than  his  name.  Huntley  had  been  brought  up  in 
all  the  natural  love  and  reverence  of  a  well-ordered  family ; 
he  knew  there  was  weakness  in  his  father's  character,  beau 
tiful,  lovable,  tender  weakness,  for  which,  somehow,  people 
only  seem  to  like  him  better.  He  had  not  permitted  him 
self  to  see  yet  what  harm  and  selfish  unconsciousness  of 
others  that  graceful  temperament  had  hidden.  He  looked 


22  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

at  Cosmo,  thinking  as  a  strong  mind  thinks  of  that  constitu 
tion  which  is  called  poetic — of  the  sensitive  nature  which 
would  shrink  from  unkindness,  and  the  tender  spirit  which 
could  not  bear  the  trials  of  the  world ;  and  the  lad's  heart 
expanded  over  his  father's  son. 

Patie  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  went  to  the  little  book 
case  in  the  corner  to  look  for  another  book  of  sermons. 
This  boy  could  not  blind  his  eyes,  even  with  family  affection. 
He  loved  his  father,  but  he  knew  plainly,  and  in  so  many 
words,  that  his  father  had  ruined  their  inheritance.  He 
could  not  help  seeing  that  this  amiable  tenderness  bore  no 
better  fruit  than  selfishness  or  cruelty.  He  thought  it  would 
be  right  and  just  to  all  their  hopes  to  part  with  even  the 
name  of  Norlaw.  But  it  was  not  his  concern  ;  he  was  ready 
to  give  his  opinion  at  the  proper  time,  but  not  to  stand  out 
unreasonably  against  the  decision  of  his  elder  brother  ;  and 
when  he,  too,  looked  at  Cosmo,  it  was  with  soberer  eyes  than 
those  of  Huntley — not  that  he  cared  less  for  his  father's  son 
— but  Patrick  could  not  help  seeing  with  those  clear  eyes  oi 
his ;  and  what  he  feared  to  see  was  not  the  sensitive  nature 
and  the  tender  spirit,  but  the  self-regard  which  lay  beneath. 

Which  of  them  \vas  right,  or  whether  either  of  them  were 
right,  this  history  will  best  show. 


CHAPTER    Y. 

SABBATH  night ;  a  July  night,  sweet  with  summer  stars 
and  moonlight,  and  with  no  darkness  in  it :  the  water  run 
ning  soft  with  its  quietest  murmur,  the  thrush  and  blackbird 
beguiled  to  sing  almost  as  late  as  the  southland  nightingale  ; 
the  scent  of  the  late  roses  coming  round  the  corner  of  the 
house  on  the  faint  breeze ;  the  stars  clustered  in  a  little 
crowd  over  the  gaunt  castle  walls,  and  in  the  distance  the 
three  weird  Eildons,  standing  out  dark  against  the  pale  azure 
blue  and  flood  of  moonlight ;  a  Sabbath  evening  with  not  a 
sound  in  it,  save  the  sweetest  sounds  of  nature,  a  visible  holy 
blessing  of  quiet  and  repose. 

But  the  table  was  spread  in  the  dining-parlor  at  Norlaw  ; 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  23 

there  was  a  basket  of  oat-cakes  and  flour  "  bannocks  "  upon 
the  table,  in  a  snowy  napkin,  arid  butter,  and  milk,  and 
cheese,  all  of  the  freshest  and  most  fragrant,  the  produce  of 
their  own  lands.  Two  candles  made  a  little  spot  of  light 
upon  the  white  table-cloth,  but  left  all  the  rest  of  the  room 
in  dreary  shadow.  To  see  it  was  enough  to  tell  that  some 
calamity  oppressed  the  house — and  when  the  widow  came 
in,  with  her  face  of  exhaustion,  and  eyes  which  could  weep 
no  more  for  very  weariness,  when  the  boys  followed  slowly 
one  by  one,  and  Marget  coming  in  with  the  solemn,  noiseless 
step,  so  unusual  to  her,  hovered  about  them  with  all  her  por 
tentous  gravity,  and  unwonted  attendance,  it  was  not  hard 
to  conclude  that  they  ate  and  drank  under  the  shadow  of 
death.  The  Mistress  had  not  appeared  that  day,  from  the 
early  breakfast  until  now ;  it  was  the  -only  time  before  or 
after  when  she  faltered  from  the  ways  of  common  life. 

When  they  had  ended  the  meal,  which  no  one  cared  to 
taste,  and  when  the  lads  began  to  think  with  some  comfort, 
in  the  weariness  of  their  youth,  that  the  day  at  last  was  over, 
Mrs.  Livingstone  drew  her  chair  away  from  the  table,  and  j 
looked  at  them  all  with  the  sorrowful  tenderness  of  a  mother 
and  a  widow.  Then,  after  a  long  interval,  she  spoke. 

"  Bairns !"  she  said,  with  a  voice  which  was  hoarse  with 
solicitude  and  weeping,  "  you're  a'  thinking  what  you're  to 
do,  and  though  it's  the  Sabbath  day,  I  canna  blame  ye  ,  but 
me,  I'm  but  a  weak  woman — I  could  not  say  a  word  to  coun 
sel  ye,  if  it  was  to  save  the  breaking  of  my  heart  this  day." 

"  We  never  looked  for  it,  mother.  There's  time  enough  ! 
do  you  think  we  would  press  our  plans  on  you  ?"  cried  the 
eager  Huntley,  who  had  been  groaning  but  a  few  hours  ago, 
at  this  compulsory  delay. 

"  Na,  I  could  not  do  it,"  said  the  mother,  turning  her 
head  aside,  and  drawing  the  hem  of  her  apron  through  her 
fingers,  while  the  tears  dropped  slowly  out  of  her  tired  eyes  ; 
"  this  is  the  last  Sabbath  day  that  him  and  me  will  be  under 
the  same  roof.  I  canna  speak  to  you,  bairns ;  I'm  but  a 
weak  woman,  and  I've  been  his  wife  this  five-and-twenty 
years." 

After  a  pause,  the  Mistress  dried  her  eyes,  and  went  on 
hurriedly : — 

"  But  I  ken  ye  must  have  your  ain  thoughts  ;  the  like  of 
you  canna  keep  still  a  long  summer  day,  though  it  is  a  Sab- 


24  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

bath  ;  and,  bairns,  I've  just  this  to  say  to  you ;  ye  canna  fear 
mair  than  we'll  have  to  meet.  I'm  thankful  even  that  he's 
gane  hame  before  the  storm  falls ;  for  you're  a'  young,  and 
can  stand  a  blast.  There's  plenty  to  do,  and  plenty  to  bear. 
I  dinna  forbid  ye  thinking,  though  it's  Sabbath  night,  and 
death  is  among  us  ;  but  oh !  laddies,  think  in  a  godly  man 
ner,  and  ask  a  blessing — dinna  darken  the  Sabbath  with 
worldly  thoughts,  and  him  lying  on  his  last  bed  up  the 
stair !" 

The  boys  drew  near  to  her  simultaneously,  with  a  common 
impulse.  She  heard  the  rustle  and  motion  of  their  youthful 
grief,  but  she  still  kept  her  head  aside,  and  drew  tightly 
through  her  fingers  the  hem  of  her  apron. 

"  The  day  after  the  morn,"  continued  the  widow,  "  I'll  be 
ready  with  all  that  I  ken,  and  ready  to  hear  whatever  you 
think  for  yourselves;  think  discreetly,  andl'll  no'  oppose, 
and  think  soberly,  without  pride,  for  we're  at  the  foot  of  the 
brae.  And  we've  nae  friends  to  advise  us,  bairns,"  continued 
the  Mistress,  raising  her  head  a  little  with  the  very  pride 
which  she  deprecated;  "  we've  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  take 
us  by  the  hand,  nor  give  us  counsel.  Maybe  it's  a'  the  better 
— for  we've  only  Providence  to  trust  to  now,  and  ourselves." 

By  this  time  she  had  risen  up,  and  taking  the  candle  which 
Patrick  had  lighted  for  her,  she  stood  with  the  little  flat 
brass  sconce  in  her  hand,  and  the  light  flickering  over  her 
face,  still  looking  down.  Yet  she  lingered,  as  if  she  had 
something  more  to  say.  It  burst  from  her  lips,  at  last, 
suddenly,  almost  with  passion. 

"  Bairns !  take  heed,  in  your  very  innermost  hearts,  that 
ye  think  no  blame!"  cried  the  widow;  and  when  she  had 
said  these  words,  hastened  away,  as  if  afraid  to  follow  up  or 
to  weaken  them  by  another  syllable.  When  she  was  gone, 
the  lads  stood  silently  about  the  table,  each  of  them  with 
an  additional  ache  in  his  heart.  There  icas  blame  which 
might  be  thought,  which  might  be  spoken ;  even  she  was 
aware  of  it,  in  the  jealous  regard  of  her  early  grief. 

"  The  Mistress  has  bidden  you  a'  good  night,"  said  Mar- 
get,  entering  softly ;  "  ye've  taen  nae  supper,  and  ye  took 
nae  dinner ;  how  are  ye  to  live  and  work,  growing  laddies 
like  you,  if  you  gang  on  at  this  rate  ?  Ye  mean  to  break 
my  heart  amang  you.  If  ye  never  break  bread,  Huntley 
Livingstone,  how  will  you  get  through  the  morn  ?" 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  25 

"  I  wish  it  was  over,"  cried  Huntley,  once  more. 

"  And  so  do  I.  Eh !  bairns,  when  I  see  those  blinds  a' 
drawn  down,  it  makes  my  heart  sick,"  cried  Marget,  "  and 
grief  itsel's  easier  to  thole  when  ane  has  ane's  wark  in  hand. 
But  I  didna  come  to  haver  nonsense  here.  I  came  to  bid 
ye  a'  gang  to  your  beds,  like  good  laddies.  Ye'll  a'  sleep ; 
that's  the  good  of  being  young.  The  Mistress,  I  daur  to 
say,  and  even  mysel',  will  not  close  an  eye  this  night." 

"  Would  my  mother  let  you  remain  with  her,  Marget  ?" 
said  Huntley ;  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  she's  alone  in  her 
trouble.  Somebody  should  have  come  to  stay  with  her ; 
Katie  Logan  from  the  manse,  perhaps.  Why  did  not  some 
one  think  of  it  before?" 

"Whisht!  and  gang  to  your  beds,"  said  Marget;  "no 
fremd  person,  however  kindly,  ever  wins  so  far  into  the 
Mistress's  heart.  If  she  had  been  blessed  with  a  daughter 
of  her  ain,  it  might  have  been  different.  Na,  Huntley,  your 
mother  wouldna  put  up  with  me.  She's  no  ane  to  have 
either  friend  or  servant  tending  on  her  sorrows.  Some 
women  would,  but  no'  the  Mistress;  and  I'm  o'  the  same 
mind  mysel'.  Gang  to  your  beds,  and  get  your  rest,  like 
good  bairns ;  the  morn  will  be  a  new  day." 

"  Shut  up  the  house  and  sleep ;  that's  all  we  can  do,"  said 
Cosmo  ;  "  but  I  canna  rest — and  he'll  never  be  another 
night  in  this  house.  Oh,  father,  father  !  I'll  keep  the  watch 
for  your  sake !" 

"  If  he's  in  this  house,  he's  here,"  said  Patrick,  suddenly, 
to  the  great  amazement  of  his  hearers,  moved  for  once  into 
a  higher  imagination  than  any  of  them;  "do  you  hear  me 
Cosmo  ?  if  he's  out  of  heaven,  he's  here ;  he's  no'  on  yon 
bed  dead.  It's  no'  him  that's  to  be  carried  to  Dryburgh. 
Watching's  past  and  done,  unless  he  watches  us ;  he's  either 
in  heaven,  or  he's  here." 

"  Eh,  laddie  !  God  bless  you,  that's  true  !"  cried  Marget, 
moved  into  sudden  tears.  There  was  not  composure  enough 
among  them  to  add  another  word;  they  went  to  their 
rooms  silently,  not  to  disturb  their  mother's  solitude.  But 
Huntley  could  not  rest ;  he  came  softly  down  stairs  again, 
through  the  darkened  house,  to  find  Marget  sitting  by  the 
fire  which  she  had  just  "gathered"  to  last  all  night,  reading 
her  last  chapter  in  the  big  Bible,  and  startled  her  by  draw 
ing  the  bolts  softly  aside  and  stepping  out  into  the  open  air. 

2 


26  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

"  I  must  breathe,"  the  lad  said  with  a  voice  full  of  broken 
sobs. 

The  night  was  like  a  night  of  heaven,  if  such  a  glory  is, 
where  all  glories  are.  The  moon  was  more  lavish  in  her 
full,  mellow  splendor,  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  to 
Huntley's  eyes ;  the  sky  seemed  as  light  as  day,  almost  too 
luminous  to  show  the  stars,  which  were  there  shining  softly 
in  myriads,  though  you  could  scarcely  see  them ;  and  the 
water  flowed,  and  the  trees  rustled,  with  a  perfection  of 
still  music,  exquisite,  and  silent,  and  beyond  description, 
which  Nature  only  knows  when  she  is  alone.  The  youth 
turned  back  again  with  a  sob  which  eased  his  heart.  Out 
of  doors  nothing  but  splendor,  glory,  a  beatitude  calm  and 
full  as  heaven ;  within,  nothing  but  death  and  the  presence 
of  death,  heavy,  like  a  pall,  upon  the  house  and  all  its 
inmates.  He  went  back  to  his  rest,  with  the  wonder  of 
humanity  in  his  heart;  when,  God  help  us,  should  this 
terrible  difference  be  over?  when  should  the  dutiful  crea 
tion,  expanding  thus,  while  the  rebel  sleeps,  receive  once 
more  its  fullest  note  of  harmony,  its  better  Eden,  the  race 
for  whom  sin  and  sorrow  has  ended  for  evermore  ? 


CHAPTEK    VI. 

THE  day  of  the  funeral  rose  with  a  merciful  cloud  over 
its  brightness — a  sorrowful  bustle  was  in  the  house  of  N"or- 
law ;  some  of  the  attendants  of  the  burial  train  were  to 
return  to  dine,  as  the  custom  was,  and  Marget  and  Jenny 
were  fully  employed  in  the  kitchen,  with  the  assistance  of 
the  mother  of  the  latter,  who  was  a  widow  herself,  full  of 
sorrowful  experience,  and  liked,  as  is  not  unusual  in  her 
class,  to  assist  in  the  melancholy  labors  of  such  an  "  occa 
sion."  The  east  room  was  open  for  the  reception  of  the 
funeral  guests,  and  on  the  table  were  set  out  decanters  of 
wine,  and  liberal  plates  of  a  delicate  cake  which  used  to  bear 
the  dismal  title  of  funeral  biscuit  in  Scotland.  The  widow, 
who  put  on  for  the  first  time  to-day,  the  dress  which 
henceforward  she  should  wear  all  her  life,  kept  her  own 
apartment,  where  the  wife  of  the  principal  farmer  near,  and 


THE    LAIED    OP    NOELAW.  27 

Catharine  Logan,  the  minister's  daughter,  had  joined  her; 
for  though  she  would  much  rather  have  been  left  alone,  use 
and  precedent  were  strong  upon  the  Mistress,  and  she 
would  not  willingly  have  broken  through  any  of  the  formal 
and  unalterable  customs  of  the  country-side.  The  guests 
gathered  gradually  about  the  melancholy  house ;  it  was  to 
be  "  a  great  funeral."  As  horseman  after  horseman  arrived, 
the  women  in  the  kitchen  looked  out  from  the  corner  of 
their  closed  shutters,  with  mournful  pride  and  satisfaction ; 
every  household  of  any  standing  in  the  district  came  out  to 
show  "respect"  to  Norlaw — and  even  the  widow  in  her 
darkened  room  felt  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  sounds  which 
came  softened  to  her  ear,  the  horses'  hoofs,  the  clash  of 
stirrup  and  jpridle,  and  the  murmur  of  open-air  voices, 
which  even  the  "  occasion"  could  not  subdue  beyond  a 
certain  measure. 

The  lads  were  all  assembled  in  the  east  room  to  receive 
their  guests,  and  with  them,  the  earliest  arrival  of  all,  was 
the  minister,  lending  his  kindly  support  and  aid  to  Huntley, 
in  this  earliest  and  saddest  exercise  of  his  new  duties  as 
head  of  the  house.  One  good  thing  was,  that  the  visit 
ors  did  not  feel  themselves  called  upon  to  overwhelm  the 
fatherless  youth  with  condolences.  A  hearty  grasp  of 
rough  hands ;  a  subdued  word  of  friendship  and  encourage 
ment,  as  one  by  one,  or  in  little  clusters,  those  great  rustic 
figures,  all  in  solemn  mourning,  collected  in  the  room,  were 
all  that  "  the  family"  were  called  upon  to  undergo. 

The  hum  of  conversation  which  immediately  began,  sub 
dued  in  tone  and  grave  in  expression,  but  still  conversa 
tion  such  as  rural  neighbors  use,  interspersed  with  inqui 
ries  and  shakes  of  the  head,  as  to  how  this  household  \vas 
"left,"  was  a  relief  to  the  immediate  mourners,  though 
perhaps  it  was  not  much  in  accordance  with  the  sentiment 
of  the  time.  It  was  etiquette  that  the  wine  and  cake 
should  be  served  to  all  present,  and  when  all  the  guests 
were  assembled,  the  minister  rose,  and  called  them  to 
prayer.  They  stood  in  strange  groups,  tfyose  stalwart, 
ruddy  southland  men,  about  the  table — one  covering  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  one  standing  erect,  with  his  head 
bowed,  some  leaning  against  the  wall,  or  over  the  chairs. 
Perhaps  eyes  unaccustomed  to  such  a  scene  might  have 
thought  there  was  little  reverence  in  the  fashion  of  this 


28  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

funeral  service  ;  but  there  was  at  least  perfect  silence, 
through  which  the  grave  voice  of  the  minister  rose  steadily, 
yet  not  without  a  falter  of  personal  emotion.  It  was  not 
the  solemn  impersonal  words  which  other  churches  say  over 
every  man  whom  death  makes  sacred.  It  was  an  individ 
ual  voice,  asking  comfort  for  the  living,  thanking  God  for 
the  dead — and  when  that  was  done  the  ceremonial  was  so 
far  over,  and  Norlaw  had  only  now  to  be  carried  to  his 
grave. 

All  the  preparations  were  thus  far  accomplished.  The 
three  brothers  and  Dr.  Logan  had  taken  their  place  in  the 
mourning  coach ;  some  distant  relatives  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  another;  and  the  bulk  of  the  guests  had  mounted 
and  were  forming  into  a  procession  behind.  Every  thing 
had  progressed  thus  far,  when  some  sudden  obstruction  be 
came  visible  to  the  horsemen  without.  The  funeral  attend 
ants  closed  round  the  hearse,  the  horses  were  seized  by 
strangers,  and  their  forward  motion  checked ;  already  the 
farmers  behind,  leaping  from  their  horses,  crowded  on  to 
ascertain  the  cause  of  the  detention  ;  but  the  very  fact  of  it 
was  not  immediately  visible  to  the  youths  who  were  most 
interested.  When  the  sudden  contention  of  voices  startled 
Huntley,  the  lad  gazed  out  of  the  window  for  a  moment  in 
the  wild  resentment  of  grief,  and  then  dashing  open  the 
door,  sprang  into  the  midst  of  the  crowd  ;  a  man  who  was 
not  in  mourning,  and  held  a  baton  in  his  hand,  stood  firm 
and  resolute,  with  his  hand  upon  the  door  of  the  hearse ; 
other  men  conspicuous  among  the  funeral  guests,  in  then* 
every-day  dress,  kept  close  by  him,  supporting  their  supe 
rior.  The  guides  of  the  funeral  equipage  were  already  in 
high  altercation  with  the  intruders,  yet,  even  at  their  loud 
est,  were  visibly  afraid  of  them. 

"Take  out  the  horses,  Grierson — do  your  duty!"  shouted 
the  leader  at  the  hearse  door ;  "  stand  back,  ye  blockheads, 
in  the  name  of  the  law  !  I'm  here  to  do  my  orders;  stand 
back,  or  it  '11  be  waur  for  ye  a' — ha !  wha's  here  ?" 

It  was  Huptley,  whose  firm  young  grasp  was  on  the 
sturdy  shoulder  of  the  speaker. 

"Leave  the  door,  or  I'll  fell  you!"  cried  the  lad,  in 
breathless  passion,  shaking  with  his  clutch  of  fury  the  strong 
thick-set  frame  which  had  double  his  strength ;  "  what  do 
you  want  here  ? — how  do  you  dare  to  stop  the  funeral  ? 


THE     LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  29 

take  off  your  hand  off  the  door,  or  I'll  fell  you  to  the 
ground !" 

"  "Whisht,  lad,  whisht — it 's  a  sheriff's  officer ;  speak  him 
canny  and  he'll  hear  reason,"  cried  one  of  the  farmers,  has 
tily  laying  a  detaining  grasp  on  Huntley's  arm.  The  intru 
der  stood  his  ground  firmly.  He  took  his  hand  from  the 
door,  not  in  obedience  to  the  threat,  but  to  the  grief  which 
burned  in  the  youth's  eyes. 

"My  lad,  it's  little  pleasure  to  me,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  was  not  without  respect,  "  but  I  must  do  my  duty. 
Felling  me 's  no'  easy,  but  felling  the  law  is  harder  still. 
Make  him  stand  aside,  any  of  you  that's  his  friend,  and  has 
sense  to  ken ;  there 's  no  mortal  good  in  resisting ;  this  fu 
neral  can  not  gang  on  this  day." 

"  Let  go — s'and  back;  speak  to  me,"  said  Huntley,  throw 
ing  off  the  grasp  of  his  Mend,  and  turning  to  his  opponent 
a  face  in  which  bitter  shame  and  distress  began  to  take  the 
place  of  passion;  "stand  aside,  every  man — what  right  have 
you  to  stop  us  burying  our  dead  ?  I  'm  his  son  ;  come  here 
and  tell  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  my  lad,  but  I  can  not  help  it," 
said  the  officer  ;  "  I  'm  bound  to  arrest  the  body  of  Patrick 
Livingstone,  of  Norlaw.     It  may  be  a  cruel  thing,  but  I   j 
must  do  my  duty.     I  'm  Alexander  Elliot,  sheriff's  officer  at   ! 
Melrose ;  I  want  to  make  no  disturbance  more  than  can  be 
helped.     Take  my  advice.     Take  in  the  coffin  to  the  house 
and  bid  the  neighbors  back  for  another  day.     And,  in  the 
meantime,  look  up  your  friends  and  settle  your  scores  with   f 
Melmar.     It 's  the  best  you  can  do." 

"  Elliot,"  said  Dr.  Logan,  over  his  shoulder,  "  do  you  call 
this  law,  to  arrest  the  dead  ?  He 's  far  beyond  debt  and 
trouble  now.  For  shame  ! — leave  the  living  to  meet  their 
troubles,  but  let  them  bury  their  dead." 

"  And  so  I  would,  minister,  if  it  was  me,"  said  Elliot, 
twirling  his  baton  in  his  hand,  and  looking  down  with  mo 
mentary  shame  and  confusion;  "but  I've  as  little  to  do 
with  the  business  as  you  have,"  he  added,  hurriedly, 
give  you  my  advice  for  the  best,  but  I  must  do  my  duty. 
Grierson,  look  to  thae  youngsters — dang  them  a' — do  ye  ca' 
that  mair  seemly  ?  it 's  waur  than  me !" 

Cosmo  Livingstone,  wild  with  a  boy's  passion,  and  stupe 
fied  with  grief,  had  sprung  up  to  the  driving-seat  of  the 


30  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

hearse  while  this  discussion  proceeded ;  and  lashing  the  half- 
loosed  horses,  had  urged  them  forward  with  a  violent  and 
unseemly  speed,  which  threw  down  on  either  side  the  men 
\vho  were  at  their  heads,  and  dispersed  the  crowd  in  mo 
mentary  alarm.  The  frightened  animals  dashed  forward 
wildly  for  a  few  steps,  but  speedily  brought  up  in  their  un 
accustomed  career  by  the  shouts  and  pursuit  of  the  attend 
ants,  carried  the  melancholy  vehicle  down  the  slope  and 
paused,  snorting,  at  the  edge  of  the  stream,  through  which, 
the  boy,  half  mad  with  excitement,  would  have  driven  them. 
Perhaps  the  wild  gallop  of  the  hearse,  though  only  for  so 
short  a  distance,  horrified  the  bystanders  more  than  the  real 
interruption.  One  of  the  funeral  guests  seized  Cosmo  in 
his  strong  arms,  and  lifted  him  down  like  a  child ;  the  others 
led  the  panting  horses  back  at  the  reverential  pace  which 
became  the  solemn  burden  they  were  bearing;  and  after 
that  outbreak  of  passion,  the  question  was  settled  without 
further  discussion.  Patrick  Livingstone,  his  eyes  swollen 
and  heavy  with  burning  tears,  which  he  could  not  shed,  led 
the  way,  while  the  bearers  once  more  carried  to  his  vacant 
room  all  that  remained  of  Norlaw. 

The  mass  of  the  funeral  guests  paused  only  long  enough 
to  maintain  some  degree  of  quietness  and  decency;  they 
dispersed  with  natural  good  feeling,  without  aggravating 
the  unfortunate  family  with  condolence  or  observation. 
Huntley,  with  the  minister  and  the  principal  farmer  of  the 
district,  Mr.  Blackadder,  of  Tyneside,  who  happened  to  be 
also  an  old  and  steady  friend  of  their  father,  stood  at  a  little 
distance  with  the  officer,  investigating  the  detainer  wrhich 
kept  the  dead  out  of  his  grave ;  the  melancholy  empty 
hearse  and  dismal  coaches  crept  off  slowly  along  the  high 
road ;  and  Cosmo,  trembling  in  every  limb  with  the  violence 
of  his  excitement,  stood  speechless  at  the  door,  gazing  after 
them,  falling,  in  the  quick  revulsion  of  his  temperament,  from 
unnatural  passion  into  utter  and  prostrate  despondency.  The 
poor  boy  scarcely  knew  who  it  was  that  drew  him  into  the 
house,  and  spoke  those  words  of  comfort  which  relieved  his 
overcharged  heart  by  tears.  It  was  pretty  Katie  Logan, 
crying  herself,  and  scarcely  able  to  speak,  who  had  been 
sent  down  from  the  widow's  room,  by  Mrs.  Blackadder,  to 
find  out  what  the  commotion  was ;  and  who,  struck  with 
horror  and  amazement,  as  at  a  sacrilege,  was  terrified  to  go 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NOELAW.  31 

up  again,  to  break  the  tender,  proud  heart  of  Norlaw's 
mourning  wife,  with  such  terrible  news. 

Presently  the  mournful  little  party  came  in  to  the  east 
room,  which  still  stood  as  they  had  left  it,  with  the  funeral 
bread  and  wine  upon  the  table.  Patrick  came  to  join  them 
immediately,  and  the  two  lads  bent  their  heads  together 
over  the  paper :  a  thousand  pounds,  borrowed  by  a  hundred 
at  a  time  from  Mr.  Huntley,  of  Melmar,  over  and  above  the 
mortgages  which  that  gentleman  held  on  the  better  part  of 
the  lands  of  Norlaw.  The  boys  read  it  with  a  passion  of 
indignation  and  shame  in  their  hearts ;  their  father's  affairs, 
on  his  funeral  day,  publicly  "  exposed"  to  all  the  country 
side  ;  their  private  distress  and  painful  prospects,  and  his 
unthrift  and  weakness  made  the  talk  of  every  gossip  in  the 
country.  Huntley  and  Patrick  drew  a  hard  breath,  and 
clasped  each  other's  hands  with  the  grip  of  desperation. 
But  Norlaw  lay  unburied  on  his  death-bed  ;  they  could  not 
bury  him  till  this  money  was  paid ;  it  was  an  appalling  sum 
to  people  in  their  class,  already  deeply  impoverished,  and  in 
the  first  tingle  of  this  distressing  blow,  they  saw  no  light 
either  on  one  side  or  the  other,  and  could  not  tell  what 
to  do. 

"  But  I  can  not  understand,"  said  Dr.  Logan,  who  was  a 
man  limited  and  literal,  although  a  most  pious  minister  and 
the  father  of  his  people ;  "  I  can  not  understand  how  law  can 
sanction  what  even  nature  holds  up  her  hand  against.  The 
dead — man  !  how  dare  ye  step  in  with  your  worldly  arrests 
and  warrants,  when  the  Lord  has  been  before  you  ?  how 
dare  ye  put  your  bit  baton  across  the  grave,  where  a  right 
eous  man  should  have  been  laid  this  day  ?" 

"I  have  to  do  my  duty,"  said  the  immovable  Elliot, 
"  how  daur  ye,  is  naething  to  me.  I  must  do  according  to 
my  instructions — and  ye  ken,  doctor,  it's  but  a  man's  body 
can  be  apprehended  ony  time.  Neither  you  nor  me  can  lay 
grips  on  his  soul." 

"  Hush,  mocker !"  cried  the  distressed  clergyman  ;  "  but 
what  is  to  be  done  ?  Mr.  Blackadder,  these  bairns  can  not 
get  this  money  but  with  time  and  toil.  If  that  will  do  any 
good,  I'll  go  immediately  to  Me'mar  myself." 

"  Never,"  cried  Huntley  ;  "  never— any  thing  but  that. 
I'll  sell  myself  for  a  slave  before  I'll  take  a  favor  from  my 
father's  enemy." 


32  THE    LA.IRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

"  It's  in  Whitelaw's  hands,  the  writer  in  Melrose.  I'll 
ride  down  there  and  ask  about  it,"  said  Blackadder; 
"  whisht,  Huntley !  the  minister's  presence  should  learn 
you  better — and  every  honest  man  can  but  pity  and  scorn 
ane  that  makes  war  with  the  dead ;  I'll  ride  round  to  White- 
law.  My  wife's  a  sensible  woman — she'll  break  it  softly  to 
your  mother — and  see  you  do  nothing  to  make  it  worse.  I 
suppose,  Elliot,  when  I  come  back  I'll  find  you  here." 

"Ay,  sir,  I'm  safe  enough,"  said  the  officer  significantly, 
as  "  Tyneside"  rose  to  leave  the  room.  Huntley  went  with 
him  silently  to  the  stable,  where  his  horse  stood  still  sad 
dled. 

"  I  see  what's  in  your  eye,"  said  Blackadder,  in  a  whis 
per  ;  "  take  heart  and  do  it ;  trust  not  a  man  more  than  is 
needful,  and  dinna  be  violent.  I'll  be  back  before  dark,  but 
I  may  not  chance  to  speak  to  you  again.  Do  what's  in  your 
heart." 

Huntley  wrung  the  friennly  hand  held  out  to  him,  and  went 
in  without  a  word.  His  old  restless  activity  seemed  to  have 
returned  to  him,  and  there  was  a  kindling  fire  in  his  hazel 
eyes  which  meant  some  purpose. 

Good  Dr.  Logan  took  the  lad's  hands,  and  poured  com 
fort  and  kindness  into  his  ears  ;  but  Huntley  could  scarcely 
pause  to  listen.  It  was  not  strange — and  it  seemed  almost 
hard  to  bid  the  youth  have  patience  when  the  vulgar  law — 
stubborn  and  immovable — the  law  of  money  and  merchan 
dise,  kept  joint  possession  with  death  of  this  melancholy 
house. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

HUNTLEY  could  not  see  his  mother  after  this  outrage  be 
came  known  to  her.  The  widow  resented  it  with  all  a 
woman's  horror  and  passion,  and  with  all  the  shame  of  a 
Scottish  matron,  jealous,  above  all  things,  of  privacy  and 
"  respect."  Pretty  Katie  Logan  sat  at  her  feet  crying  in 
inarticulate  and  unreasoning  sympathy,  which  was  better  for 
the  Mistress  than  all  the  wisdom  and  consolation  with  which 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  33 

food  Mrs.  Blackadder  endeavored  to  support  her.  In  the 
itchen,  Jenny  and  her  mother  cried  too,  the  latter  telling 
doleful  stones  of  similar  circumstances  which  she  had  known ; 
but  Marget  went  about  with  a  burning  cheek,  watching 
"  the  laddies"  with  a  jealous  tenderness,  which  no  one  but 
their  mother  could  have  surpassed,  eager  to  read  their  looks 
and  anticipate  their  meaning.  It  was  a  sultry,  oppressive 
day,  hot  and  cloudy,  threatening  a  thunder  storm ;  and  it 
is  impossible  to  describe  the  still  heavier  oppression  of  dis 
tress  and  excitement  in  this  closed-up  and  gloomy  house. 
When  Marget  went  out  to  the  byre,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
several  hours  after  these  occurrences,  Huntley  came  to  her 
secretly  by  a  back  way.  What  he  said  roused  the  spirit  of 
a  hero  in  Marget's  frame.  She  put  aside  her  pail  on  the  in 
stant,  smoothed  down  her  new  black  gown  over  her  petti 
coat,  and  threw  a  shawl  across  her  head. 

"  This  moment,  laddie — this  instant — ye  may  trust  me  !" 
cried  Marget,  with  a  sob  ;  and  before  Huntley,  passing  round 
behind  the  offices,  came  in  sight  of  the  high  road,  his  mes 
senger  had  already  disappeared  on  the  way  to  Kirkbride. 

Then  Huntley  drew  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  threw  round 
him  a  gray  shepherd's  plaid,  as  a  partial  disguise,  and  set 
out  in  the  opposite  direction.  Before  he  reached  his  jour 
ney's  end,  the  sweeping  deluge  of  a  thunder  storm  came 
down  upon  those  uplands,  in  white  sheets  of  falling  water. 
The  lad  did  not  pause  to  take  shelter,  scarcely  to  take 
breath,  but  pushed  on  till  he  reached  some  scattered  cot 
tages,  where  the  men  were  just  returning  from  their  day's 
work.  At  that  time  the  rain  and  the  western  sun,  through 
the  thickness  of  the  thunder  cloud,  made  a  gorgeous,  lurid, 
unearthly  glow,  like  what  it  might  make  through  the  smoke 
of  a  great  battle.  Huntley  called  one  of  the  men  to  him 
into  a  little  hollow  below  the  hamlet.  He  was  one  of  the 
servants  of  Norlaw,  as  were  most  of  these  cottagers.  The 
young  master  told  his  tale  with  little  loss  of  words,  and  met  \ 
with  the  hearty  and  ready  assent  of  his  horrified  listener. 

"  I'll  no'  fail  ye,  Maister  Huntley  ;  neither  will  the  Laid- 
laws.  I'll  bring  them  up  by  the  darkening ;  ye  may  reckon 
upon  them  and  me,"  said  the  laborer ;  "  and  what  use  bur 
dening  yoursel'  with  mair,  unless  it  were  to  show  respeot. 
There's  enow,  with  ane  of  you  lads  to  take  turns,  and  us. 
three," 


34  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

"  Not  at  the  darkening — at  midnight,  Willie ;  or  at 
earliest  at  eleven,  when  it's  quite  dark,"  said  Huntley. 

"At  eleven !  mid  nicht !  I'm  no  heeding ;  but  what  will 
we  say  to  the  wives  ?"  said  Willie,  scratching  his  head  in 
momentary  dismay. 

"  Say — but  not  till  you  leave  them — that  you're  coming 
to  serve  Norlaw  in  extremity,"  said  Huntley;  "  and  to  make 
my  brothers  and  me  debtors  to  your  kindness  forever." 

"  Whisht  about  that,"  said  Willie  Noble ;  "  mony  a  guid 
turn's  come  to  us  out  of  Norlaw  ; — and  Peggie's  nae  like  the 
maist  of  women — she'll  hear  reason.  If  we  can  aince  win 
owre  Tweed,  we're  safe,  Maister  Huntley ;  but  it's  a  weary 
long  way  to  there.  What  would  you  say  to  a  guid  horse 
and  a  light  cart  ?  there's  few  folk  about  the  roads  at  night." 

Huntley  shrunk  with  involuntary  horror  from  the  details 
even  of  his  own  arrangement. 

"I'll  take  care  for  that,"  he  said,  hurriedly;  "but  we 
could  not  take  a  carriage  over  Tweed,  and  that  is  why  I 
ask  this  help  from  you." 

"  And  kindly  welcome ;  I  wish  to  heaven  it  had  been  a 
blyther  errand  for  your  sake,"  said  the  man,  heartily ;  "  but 
we  maun  take  what  God  sends ;  and  wrha's  to  keep  the 
officer  quiet,  for  that's  the  chief  of  the  haill  plan  ?" 

"I've  to  think  of  that  yet,"  said  Huutley,  turning  his 
face  towards  home  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"I'd  bind  him  neck  and  heels,  and  put  him  in  Tyne  to 
cool  himsel' !"  said  Willie,  with  a  fervent  effusion  of  indig 
nation.  Huntley  only  bade  him  remember  the  hour,  shook 
his  hard  hand,  and  hurried  away. 

It  was  a  painful,  troubled,  unhappy  evening,  full  of  the 
excitement  of  a  conspiracy.  When  Huntley  and  Patrick 
communicated  with  each  other  it  was  impossible  to  say,  for 
they  never  seemed  to  meet  alone,  and  Patrick  had  taken 
upon  himself  the  hard  duty  of  keeping  Elliot  company. 

The  minister  and  his  daughter  departed  sadly  in  the  twi 
light,  knowing  no  comfort  for  the  family  they  left.  And 
Mr.  Blackadder  returned  gloomily  from  his  visit  to  the 
attorney,  bringing  the  news  that  he  had  no  authority  to 
stop  proceedings  till  he  consulted  with  his  principal,  after 
which,  in  good  time,  and  with  a  look  and  grasp  of  Huntley's 
hand,  which  were  full  of  meaning,  the  good  farmer,  too, 
took  his  wife  away. 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NOEL  AW.  35 

Then  came  the  real  struggle.  The  officer  kept  his  watch 
in  the  dining-room,  to  which  he  had  shifted  from  some  pre 
cautionary  notion,  and  sat  there  in  the  great  chintz  easy- 
chair,  which  the  hearts  of  the  lads  burned  to  see  him 
occupy,  perfectly  content  to  talk  to  Patie,  and  to  consume 
soberly  a  very  large  measure  of  toddy,  the  materials  for 
which  stood  on  the  table  the  whole  evening.  Patie  dis 
charged  his  painful  office  like  a  hero.  He  sat  by  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  listening  to  the  man's  stories,  refusing  to 
meet  Huntley's  eye  when  by  chance  he  entered  the  room, 
and  taking  no  note  of  the  reproachful,  indignant  glances  of 
Cosmo,  who  still  knew  nothing  of  their  plans,  and  could  not 
keep  his  patience  when  he  saw  his  brother  entertaining  this 
coarse  intruder  in  their  sorrowful  affairs. 

Huntley,  meanwhile,  moved  about  stealthily,  making  all 
the  arrangements.  It  was  a^  considerable  discouragement 
to  find  that  the  officer  had  made  up  his  mind  to  spend  the 
night  in  the  dining-room,  where  Marget,  with  a  swell  and 
excitement  in  her  homely  form,  which,  fortunately,  Elliot's 
eyes  were  not  sufficiently  enlightened  to  see,  prepared  the 
hair-cloth  sofa  for  his  night's  repose.  He  was  sober,  in  spite 
of  the  toddy,  but  it  seemed  more  than  mortal  powers  could 
bear,  keeping  awake. 

It  was  midnight ;  and  Huntley  knew  by  Marget's  face 
that  his  assistants  were  in  attendance,  but  still  they  scarcely 
ventured  to  say  to  each  other  that  every  thing  was  ready 
for  their  melancholy  office. 

Midnight,  and  the  house  was  still.  Yet  such  a  perturbed 
and  miserable  stillness,  tingling  with  apprehension  and 
watchfulness!  The  widow  had  left  her  sorrowful  retire 
ment  up-stairs;  she  stood  outside  on  the  gallery  in  the 
darkness,  with  her  hands  clasped  close  together,  keeping 
down  all  natural  pangs  in  this  unnatural  hardship.  Marget, 
who  was  strong  and  resolute,  stood  watching  breathless  at 
the  closed  door  of  the  dining-room,  with  a  great  plaid  in 
her  hands,  which  nobody  understood  the  occasion  for.  No 
one  else  was  to  be  seen,  save  a  train  of  four  black  figures 
moving  noiselessly  up  the  stairs.  At  every  step  these  mid 
night  emissaries  took,  Marget  held  her  breath  harder,  and 
the  Mistress  clasped  her  hand  upon  her  heart  with  an 
agonizing  idea  that  its  throbs  must  be  heard  throughout 
the  house.  A  single  faint  ray  of  light  directed  their  way 


36  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

to  the  room  where  the  dead  lay;  ah1  beside  was  in  the 
deepest  darkness  of  a  stormy  night — and  once  more  with  a 
merciful  noise  pattering  loud  upon  the  trees  without,  came 
down  the  deluge  of  the  thunder  storm. 

It  'was  at  this  moment  that  Cosmo,  sitting  in  his  own 
room,  trying  to  compose  his  heart  with  a  chapter  in  his 
Bible,  saw,  for  he  could  not  hear,  his  door  open,  and 
Huntley's  face,  pale  with  agitation,  look  in. 

"  Come !"  said  the  elder  brother,  who  was  almost  speech 
less  with  strong  excitement. 

"  Where  ?"  cried  the  amazed  boy. 

Huntley  held  up  his  hand  to  bar  speaking. 

"  To  bury  my  father,"  he  answered,  with  a  voice  which, 
deep  in  solemn  meaning,  seemed,  somehow,  to  be  without 
common  sound,  and  rather  to  convey  itself  to  the  mind, 
than  to  speak  to  the  ear. 

Without  a  word,  Cosmo  rose  and  followed.  His  brother 
held  him  fast  upon  the  dark  gallery,  in  a  speechless  grip  of 
intense  emotion.  Cosmo  could  scarcely  restrain  the  natural 
cry  of  terror,  the  natural  sob  out  of  his  boy's  heart. 

It  went  down  solemnly  and  noiselessly,  down  the  muffled 
stair,  that  something,  dark  and  heavy,  which  the  noiseless 
figures  carried.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Patie,  his  own 
pale  face  the  only  thing  there  on  which  the  light  fell  fully, 
held  with  a  steady,  patient  determination,  and  without  a 
tremble,  the  little  rush  light,  hid  in  a  lantern,  which  guided 
their  descent,  and  in  the  darkness  above  stood  the  Mistress, 
like  a  figure  in  a  dream,  with  her  hands  pressed  on  her 
heart. 

Then  a  blast  of  colder  air,  a  louder  sound  of  the  thunder- 
rain.  The  two  brothers  stole  down  stairs,  Huntley  still 
holding  fast  by  Cosmo's  arm — and  in  another  moment  the 
whole  procession  stood  safe  and  free,  in  the  garden,  under 
the  blast  of  big  rain  and  the  mighty  masses  of  cloud.  So 
far,  all  was  safe ;  and  thus,  under  shelter  of  the  midnight, 
set  forth  from  his  sad  house,  the  funeral  of  Norlaw. 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  37 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THAT  night  was  a  night  of  storms.  When  the  heavy 
rain  ceased,  peals  of  thunder  shook  the  house,  and  vivid 
lightning  flashed  through  the  darkness.  When  the  funeral 
procession  was  safe,  Marget  fastened  her  plaid  across  the 
door  of  the  dining-room  as  a  precaution,  and  went  up  stairs 
to  attend  to  the  Mistress.  She  found  the  widow  kneeling 
down,  where  she  had  stood,  leaning  her  hands  and  her  face 
against  the  railings  of  the  gallery,  not  fainting,  perfectly 
conscious,  yet  in  a  condition  in  comparison  with  which  a 
swoon  would  have  been  happiness.  Her  hands  clung  tight 
and  rigid  about  the  rails.  She  had  sunk  upon  her  knees 
from  pure  exhaustion,  and  kept  that  position  for  the  same 
reason.  Yet  she  was  terribly  conscious  of  the  approach  of 
Marget,  afraid  of  her  in  the  darkness,  as  if  she  were  an 
enemy.  The  faithful  servant  managed  to  rouse  her  after 
great  pains,  and  at  last  was  able  to  lead  her  down  stairs,  to 
the  gathered  fire  in  the  kitchen,  where  the  two  sat  in  the 
darkness,  with  one  red  spark  of  fire  preserving  some  ap 
pearance  of  life  in  the  apartment,  listening  to  the  blast  of 
rain  against  the  window,  watching  the  flashes  of  wild  light 
which  blazed  through  the  three  round  holes  in  the  kitchen 
shutter,  and  the  thunder  which  echoed  far  among  the  dis 
tant  hills.  Sitting  together  without  a  word,  listening  with 
feverish  anxiety  to  every  sound,  and  fearing  every  moment 
that  the  storm  must  wake  their  undesired  inmate,  who 
could  not  stir  in  the  dining-room  without  their  hearing.  It 
was  thus  the  solemn  night  passed,  lingering  and  terrible, 
over  the  heads  of  the  women  who  remained  at  home. 

And  through  that  wild  summer  midnight — through  the 
heavy  roads,  where  their  feet  sank  at  every  step,  and  the 
fluttering  ghostly  branches  on  the  hedgerows,  which  caught 
the  rude  pall,  a  large  black  shawl,  which  had  been  thrown 
over  the  coffin — the  melancholy  clandestine  procession  made 
its  way.  When  they  had  gone  about  half  a  mile,  they  were 
met  by  the  old  post-chaise  from  the  Norlaw  Arms,  at  Kirk- 
bride,  which  had  been  waiting  there  for  them.  In  it,  re 
lieving  each  other,  the  little  party  proceeded  onward.  At 
length  they  came  to  Tweed,  to  the  pebbly  beach,  where  the 


38  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

ferryman's  boat  lay  fastened  by  its  iron  ring  and  hempen 
cable.  But  for  the  fortunate  chance  of  finding  it  here, 
Huntley,  who  was  unrivaled  in  all  athletic  exercises,  had 
looked  for  nothing  better  than  swimming  across  the  river, 
to  fetch  the  boat  from  the  other  side.  Rapidly,  yet  rever 
ently,  their  solemn  burden  was  laid  in  the  boat ;  two  of  the 
men,  by  this  time,  had  ventured  to  light  torches,  which  they 
had  brought  with  them,  wrapt  in  a  plaid.  The  rain  had 
ceased.  The  broad  breast  of  Tweed  "grit"  with  those 
floods,  aud  overflowing  the  pebbles  for  a  few  yards  before 
they  reached  the  real  margin  of  the  stream,  flowed  rapidly 
and  strongly,  with  a  dark,  swift  current,  marked  with  foam, 
which  it  ^required  no  small  effort  to  strike  steadily  across. 
The  dark  trees,  glistening  with  big  drops  of  rain — the  un 
seen  depths  on  either  side,  only  perceptible  to  their  senses 
by  the  cold  full  breath  of  wind  which  blew  over  them — the 
sound  of  water  running  fierce  in  an  expanded  tide ;  and  as 
they  set  out  upon  the  river,  the  surrounding  gleam  of  water 
shining  under  their  torches,  and  the  strong  swell  of  down 
ward  motion,  against  which  they  had  to  struggle,  composed 
altogether  a  scene  which  no  one  there  soon  forgot.  The 
boat  had  to  return  a  second  time,  to  convey  all  its  passen 
gers  ;  and  then  once  more,  with  the  solemn  tramp  of  a 
procession,  the  little  party  went  on  in  the  darkness  to  the 
grave. 

And  then  the  night  calmed,  and  a  wild,  frightened  moon 
looked  out  of  the  clouds  into  solemn  Dryburgh,  in  the  midst 
of  her  old  monkish  orchards.  Through  the  great  grass- 
grown  roofless  nave,  the  white  light  fell  in  a  sudden  calm, 
pallid  and  silent  as  death  itself,  yet  looking  on  like  an 
amazed  spectator  of  the  scene. 

The  open  grave  stood  ready  as  it  had  been  prepared  this 
morning — a  dark,  yawning  breach  in  the  wet  grass,  its  edge 
all  defined  and  glistening  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  in  one 
of  the  small  side  chapels,  overgrown  with  grass  and  ivy, 
which  are  just  distinguishable  from  the  main  mass  of  the 
ruin ;  here  the  torches  blazed  and  the  dark  figures  grouped 
together,  and  in  a  solemn  and  mysterious  silence  these  soli 
tary  remains  of  the  old  house  of  God  looked  on  at  the  fu 
neral.  The  storm  was  over ;  the  thunder  clouds  rolled  away 
to  the  north ;  the  face  of  the  heavens  cleared ;  the  moon 
grew  brighter.  High  against  the  sky  stood  out  the  Cathe- 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  39 

rine  window  in  its  frame  of  ivy,  the  solitary  shafts  and  walls 
from  which  the  trees  waved — and  in  a  solemn  gloom,  broken 
by  flashes  of  light  which  magnified  the  shadow,  lay  those 
morsels  of  the  ancient  building  which  still  retained  a  cover. 
The  wind  rustled  through  the  trees,  shaking  down  great 
drops  of  moisture,  which  fell  with  a  startling  coldness  upon 
the  faces  of  the  mourners,  some  of  whom  began  to  feel  the 
thrill  of  superstitious  awe.  It  was  the  only  sound,  save  that 
of  the  subdued  footsteps  round  the  grave,  and  the  last 
heavy,  dreadful  bustle  of  human  exertion,  letting  down  the 
silent  inhabitant  into  his  last  resting-place,  which  sounded 
over  the  burial  of  Norlaw. 

And  now,  at  last,  it  was  all  over ;  the  terrible  excitement, 
the  dismal,  long,  self-restraint,  the  unnatural  force  of  human 
resentment  and  defiance  which  had  mingled  with  the  grief 
of  these  three  lads.  At  last  he  was  in  his  grave,  solemnly 
and  safely ;  at  last  he  was  secure  where  no  man  could  insult 
what  remained  of  him,  or  profane  his  dwelling-place.  As 
the  moon  shone  on  the  leveled  soil,  Cosmo  cried  aloud  in  a 
boyish  agony  of  nature,  and  fell  upon  the  wet  grass  beside 
the  grave,  The  cry  rang  through  all  the  solemn  echoes  of 
the  place.  Some  startled  birds  flew  out  of  the  ivied  crev 
ices,  and  made  wild,  bewildered  circles  of  fright  among 
the  walls.  A  pang  of  sudden  terror  fell  upon  the  rustic  at 
tendants  ;  the  torch  bearers  let  their  lights  fall,' and  the  chief 
among  them  hurriedly  entreated  Huntley  to  linger  no  longer. 

"A's  done!"  said  Willie  Noble,  lifting  his  bonnet  reve 
rently  from  his  head.  "  Farewell  to  a  good  master  that  I 
humbly  hope 's  in  heaven  lang  afore  now.  We  can  do  him 
nae  further  good,  and  the  lads  are  timid  of  the  place. 
Maister  Huntley,  may  I  give  them  the  word  to  turn 
name  ?" 

So  they  turned  home ;  the  three  brothers,  last  and  lin 
gering,  turned  back  to  life  and  their  troubles — all  the  weary 
weight  of  toil  which  he  had  left  on  their  shoulders,  for  whom 
this  solemn  midnight  expedition  was  their  last  personal  ser 
vice.  The  three  came  together,  hand  in  hand,  saying  never 
a  word— their  hearts  "grit"  like  Tweed,  and  flowing  full 
with  unspeakable  emotions — and  passed  softly  under  the  old 
fruit  trees,  which  shed  heavy  dew  upon  their  heads,  and 
through  the  wet  paths  which  shone  in  lines  of  silver  under 
the  moon ;  Tweed,  lying  full  in  a  sudden  revelation  of  moon- 


40  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOBLAW. 

light,  one  bank  falling  off  into  soft  shadows  of  trees,  the 
other  guarding  with  a  ledge  of  rock  some  fair  boundary  of 
possession,  and  the  bubbles  of  foam  gleaming  bright  upon 
the  rapid  current,  was  not  more  unlike  the  invisible  gloomy 
river  over  which  they  passed  an  hour  ago,  than  was  their 
own  coming  and  going.  The  strain  was  out  of  their  young 
spirits,  the  fire  of  excitement  had  consumed  itself,  and  Xor- 
law's  sons,  like  lads  as  they  were,  were  melting,  each  one 
silently  and  secretly,  into  the  mood  of  tears  and  loving  rec 
ollections,  the  very  tenderness  of  grief. 

And  when  Marget  took  down  "the  shutter  from  the  win 
dow,  to  see  by  the  early  morning  light  how  this  night  of 
watching  had  at  last  taken  the  bloom  from  the  Mistress' 
face,  three  other  faces,  white  with  the  wear  of  extreme 
emotion,  but  tender  as  the  morning  faces  of  children,  ap 
peared  to  her  coming  slowly  and  calmly,  and  with  weari 
ness,  along  the  green  bank  before  the  house.  They  had  not 
spoken  all  the  way.  They  were  worn  out  with  passion  and 
sorrow,  and  want  of  rest — even  with  want  of  food — for 
these  days  had  been  terrible  days  for  boys  of  their  age  to 
struggle  through.  Marget  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  min 
gled  alarm  and  triumph.  That,  and  the  sound  of  the  bolts 
withdrawn  from  the  door,  did  what  the  thunder  storm 
could  not  do.  It  broke  the  slumbers  of  the  sheriff's  officer, 
who  had  slept  till  now.  He  ran  to  the  window  hastily,  and 
drew  aside  the  curtain — he  saw  the  face  of  the  widow  at 
the  kitchen-door ;  the  lads,  travel-soiled  and  weary,  with 
their  wet  clothes  and  exhausted  faces,  coming  up  to  meet 
her ;  and  the  slumbrous  sentinel  rushed  out  of  the  room  to 
entangle  himself  in  the  folds  of  Marget's  plaid,  and  over 
whelm  her  with  angry  questions ;  for  she  came  to  his  call 
instantly,  with  a  pretense  of  care  and  solicitude  exasperating 
enough  under  any  circumstances. 

"  Where  have  the  lads  been  ?"  cried  Elliot,  throwing  down 
at  her,  torn  through  the  middle,  the  plaid  which  she  had 
hung  across  his  door. 

"  They've  been  at  their  father's  funeral,"  said  Marget,  sol 
emnly,  "  puir  bairns  ! — through  the  storm  and  the  midnicht, 
to  Dryburgh,  to  the  family  grave." 

The  man  turned  into  the  room  again  in  a  pretended  pas 
sion — but,  sheriff's  officer  though  he  was,  perhaps  he  was  not 
sorry  for  once  in  his  life  to  find  himself  foiled. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  41 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Pur  on  your  bonnet,  Katie,  and  come  with  me — the  like 
of  you  should  be  able  to  be  some  comfort  to  that  poor  widow 
at  Norlaw,"  said  Dr.  Logan  to  his  daughter,  as  they  stood 
together  in  the  manse  garden,  after  their  early  breakfast. 

After  the  storm,  it  was  a  lovely  summer  morning,  tender, 
dewy,  refreshed,  full  of  the  songs  of  birds  and  odors  of  flow 
ers. 

Katie  Logan  was  only  eighteen,  but  felt  herself  a  great 
deal  older.  She  was  the  eldest  child  of  a  late  marriage,  and 
had  been  mother  and  mistress  in  the  manse  for  four  long 
years.  The  minister,  as  is  the  fate  of  ministers,  had  waited 
long  for  this  modest  preferment,  and  many  a  heavy  thought 
it  gave  him  to  see  his  children  young  and  motherless,  and  to 
remember  that  he  himself  was  reaching  near  the  limit  of 
human  life ;  but  Katie  was  her  father's  comfort  in  this  trouble, 
as  in  most  others ;  and  it  seemed  so  natural  to  see  her  in  full 
care  and  management  of  her  four  little  brothers  and  sisters, 
that  the  chances  of  Katie  having  a  life  of  her  own  before 
her,  independent  of  the  manse,  seldom  troubled  the  thoughts 
of  her  father. 

Katie  did  not  look  a  day  older  than  she  was  ;  but  she  had 
that  indescribable  elder-sister  bearing,  that  pretty  shade  of 
thoughtfulness  upon  her  frank  face,  which  an  early  responsi 
bility  throws  into  the  looks  of  very  children.  Even  a  young 
wife,  in  all  the  importance  of  independent  sway,  must  have 
looked  but  a  novice  in  presence  of  the  minister's  daughter, 
who  had  to  be  mistress  and  mother  at  fourteen,  and  had  kept 
the  manse  cosy  and  in  order,  regulated  the  economies,  darn 
ed  the  stockings,  and  even  cut  out  the  little  frocks  and  pin 
afores  from  that  time  until  now.  Katie  knew  more  about 
measles  and  hooping-cough  than  many  a  mother,  and  was 
skilled  how  to  take  a  cold  "  in  time,"  and  check  an  incipient 
fever.  The  minister  thought  no  one  else,  save  his  dead  wife, 
could  have  managed  the  three  hundred  pounds  of  the  manse 
income,  so  as  to  leave  a  comfortable  sum  over  every  year,  to 
be  laid  by  for  "  the  bairns,"  and  comforted  himself  with  the 
thought  that  when  he  himself  was  "  called  away,"  little 
Johnnie  and  Charlie,  Colin  and  Isabel,  would  still  have  Katie, 


42  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOELAW. 

the  mother-sister,  who  already  had  been  their  guardian  so 
long. 

"  I'm  ready,  papa !"  said  Katie  ;  "  but  Mrs.  Livingstone 
does  not  care  about  a  stranger's  sympathy.  It's  no'  like  one 
belonging  to  herself.  She  may  think  it  very  kind  and  be 
pleased  with  it,  in  a  way ;  but  it  still  feels  like  an  interfer 
ence  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart." 

"  She's  a  peculiar  woman,"  said  Dr.  Logan,  "  but  you  are 
not  to  be  called  a  stranger,  my  dear  :  and  it's  no  small  plea 
sure  to  me,  Katie,  to  think  that  there  are  few  houses  in  the 
parish  where  you  are  not  just  as  welcome  as  myself." 

Katie  made  no  reply  to  this.  She  did  not  think  it  would 
much  mend  the  matter  with  the  Mistress  to  be  reckoned  as 
one  of  the  houses  in  the  parish.  So  she  tied  on  her  bonnet 
quietly,  and  took  her  father's  arm,  and  turned  down  the  brae 
toward  Norlaw ;  for  this  little  woman  had  the  admirable 
quality  of  knowing,  not  only  how  to  speak  with  great  good 
sense,  but  how  to  refrain. 

"  I'm  truly  concerned  about  this  family,"  said  Dr.  Logan ; 
"  indeed.  I  may  say,  I'm  very  much  perplexed  in  my  mind 
how  to  do.  A  state  of  things  like  this  can  not  be  tolerated 
in  a  Christian  country,  Katie.  The  dead  denied  decent  bur 
ial  !  It's  horrible  to  think  of;  so  I  see  no  better  for  it,  my 
dear,  than  to  take  a  quiet  ride  to  Melmar,  without  letting 
on  to  any  body,  and  seeing  for  myself  what's  to  be  done 
with  Aim." 

"  I  don't  like  Mr.  Huntley,  papa,"  said  Katie,  decidedly. 

"  That  may  be,  my  dear  ;  but  still,  I  suppose  he's  just  like 
other  folk,  looking  after  his  own  interest,  without  meaning 
any  particular  harm  to  any  body,  unless  they  come  in  his 
way.  Oh,  human  nature !"  said  the  minister  ;  "  the  most  of 
us  are  just  like  that,  Katie,  though  we  seldom  can  see  it; 
but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Melmar  was  greatly  in 
censed  against  poor  Norlaw,  who  was  nobody's  enemy  but 
his  own." 

"And  his  sons!"  said  Katie,  hastily.  "Poor  boys!  I 
wonder  what  they'll  do  ?"  This  was  one  peculiarity  of  her 
elder-sisterly  position  which  Katie  had  not  escaped.  She 
thought  it  quite  natural  and  proper  to  speak  of  Patie  and 
Huntley  Livingstone,  one  of  whom  was  about  her  own  age, 
and  one  considerably  her  senior,  as  the  "  boys,"  and  to  take 
a  maternal  interest  in  them  ;  even  Dr.  Logan,  excellent  man, 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW.  43 

did  not  see  any  thing  to  smile  at  in  this.  He  answered  with 
the  most  perfect  seriousness,  echoing  her  words:  — 

"Poor  boys!  We're  short-sighted  mortals,  Katie;  but 
there's  no  telling — it  might  be  all  the  better  for  them  that 
they're  left  to  themselves,  and  are  no  more  subject  to  poor 
Norlaw.  But  about  Melmar  ?  I  think,  my  dear,  I  might 
as  well  ride  over  there  to-day." 

"  Wait  till  we've  seen  Mrs.  Livingstone,  papa,"  said  the 
prudent  Katie.  "  Do  you  see  that  man  on  the  road — who 
is  it  ?  He's  in  an  awful  hurry.  I  think  I've  seen  him  be 
fore." 

"  Robert  Mushet,  from  the  hill ;  he's  always  in  a  hurry, 
like  most  idle  people,"-  said  the  minister. 

"  No ;  it's  not  Robbie,  papa ;  he's  as  like  the  officer  as 
he  can  look,"  said  Katie,  straining  her  eyes  over  the  high 
bank  which  lay  between  his  path  and  the  high-road. 

"  Whisht,  my  dear — the  officer  ?  Do  you  mean  the  ex 
ciseman,  Katie  ?  It  might  very  well  be  him,  without  mak 
ing  any  difference  to  us." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  him — the  man  that  came  to  Norlaw  yes 
terday  !"  cried  Katie,  triumphantly,  hastening  the  good 
doctor  along  the  by-road  at  a  pace  to  which  he  was  not  ac 
customed.  "  Something's  happened !  Oh  papa,  be  quick 
and  let  us  on." 

"  Canny,  my  dear,  canny  !"  said  Dr.  Logan.  "  I  fear  you 
must  be  mistaken,  Katie ;  but  if  you're  right,  I'm  very 
glad  to  think  that  Melmar  must  have  seen  the  error  of  his 
way." 

Katie  was  very  indifferent  about  Melmar  ;  but  she  pressed 
on  eagerly,  full  of  interest  to  know  what  had  happened  at 
Norlaw.  When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  it  was 
evident  by  its  changed  aspect  that  things  were  altered  there. 
The  windows  were  open,  the  blinds  drawn  up,  the  sunshine 
once  more  entering  freely  as  of  old.  The  minister  went 
forward  with  a  mind  perturbed  ;  he  did  not  at  all  compre 
hend  what  this  could  mean. 

The  door  was  opened  to  them  by  Marget,  who  took  them 
into  the  east  room  with  a  certain  solemn  importance,  and 
who  wore  her  new  mourning  and  her  afternoon  cap  with 
black  ribbons,  in  preparation  for  visitors. 

"  I've  got  them  a'  persuaded  to  take  a  rest — a'  but  Hunt- 
ley,"  said  Marget;  "for  yesterday  and  last  night  were 


44  THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW. 

enough  to  kill  baith  the  laddies  and  their  mother — no'  a 
morsel  o>  meat  within  their  lips,  nor  a  wink  of  sleep  to  their 
e  'en." 

"  You  alarm  me,  Marget ;  what  does  all  this  mean  ?" 
cried  Dr.  Logan,  waving  his  hand  towards  the  open 
windows. 

Katie,  more  eager  and  more  quick-witted,  watched  the 
motion  of  Marget's  lips,  yet  found  out  the  truth  before  she 
spoke. 

"  The  maister's  funeral,"  said  Marget,  with  a  solemn 
triumph,  though  her  voice  broke,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  nat 
ural  sorrow,  "  took  place  yestreen,  at  midnicht,  sir,  as  there 
was  nae  other  way  for  it,  in  the  orderings  of  Providence. 
Maister  Huntley  arranged  it  so." 

"  Oh,  poor  boys !"  cried  Katie  Logan,  and  she  threw  her 
self  down  on  a  chair,  and  cried  heartily  in  sympathy,  and 
grief,  and  joy.  Nothing  else  was  possible ;  the  scene,  the 
circumstances,  the  cause,  were  not  to  be  spoken  of.  There 
was  no  way  but  that  way,  of  showing  how  this  young  heart 
at  least  felt  with  the  strained  hearts  of  the  family  of  Nor- 
law. 

"  Ye  may  say  sae,  Miss  Katie,"  said  Marget,  crying  too  in 
little  outbursts,  from  which  she  recovered  to  wipe  her  eyes 
and  curtsey  apologetically  to  the  minister.  "  After  a'  they 
gaed  through  yesterday,  to  start  in  the  storm  and  the  dark, 
and  lay  him  in  his  grave  by  torchlight  in  the  dead  of  the 
night — three  laddies,  that  I  mind,  just  like  yesterday,  bits 
of  bairns  about  the  house — it's  enough  to  break  ane's 
heart !" 

"I  am  very  much  startled,"  said  Dr.  Logan,  pacing 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room ;  "  it  was  a  very  out-of-the- 
way  proceeding.  Dear  me ! — at  midnight — by  torchlight ! 
— Poor  Norlaw  !  But  still  I  can  not  say  I  blame  them — I 
can  not  but  acknowledge  I'm  very  well  pleased  it's  over. 
Dear  me !  who  could  have  thought  it,  without  asking  my 
advice  or  any  body's — these  boys  !  bu^  I  suppose,  Katie,  my 
dear,  if  they  are  all  resting,  we  may  as  well  think  of  turn 
ing  back,  unless  Marget  thinks  Mrs.  Livingstone  would  like 
to  have  you  beside  her  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"  No,  papa ;  she  would  like  best  to  be  by  herself— and  so 
would  I,  if  it  was  me,"  said  Katie,  promptly. 

"  Eh,  Miss  Katie  !  the  like  of  you  for  understanding — 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  45 

and  you  so  young !"  cried  Marget,  with  real  admiration ; 
"  but  the  minister  canna  gang  away  till  he's  seen  young 
Norlaw." 

"  Who  ?"  cried  Dr.  Logan,  in  amazement. 

"  My  young  master,  sir,  the  present  Norlaw,"  said  Mar- 
get,  with  a  curtsey  which  was  not  without  defiance. 

The  good  minister  shook  his  head. 

"  Poor  laddie  !"  said  Doctor  Logan,  "  I  wish  him  many 
better  things  than  his  inheritance  ;  but  I  would  gladly  see 
Huntley.  If  you  are  sure  he's  up  and  able  to  see  us,  tell 
him  I'm  here." 

"  I'll  tell  him  wha's  here,"  said  Marget,  under  her 
breath,  as  she  went  softly  away  ;  "  eh,  my  puir  bairn  !  I'd 
gie  my  little  finger  cheerful  for  the  twa  of  them,  to  see  them 
draw  together ;  and  mair  unlikely  things  have  come  to  pass. 
Guid  forgive  me  for  thinking  of  the  like  in  a  house  of 
death !" 

Yet,  unfortunately,  it  was  hard  to  avoid  thinking  of  such 
profane  possibilities  in  the  presence  of  two  young  people 
like  Huntley  and  Katie — especially  for  a  woman;  not  a 
few  people  in  the  parish,  of  speculative  minds,  who  could 
see  a  long  way  before  them,  had  already  lightly  linked  their 
names  together  as  country  gossips  use,  and  perhaps  Huntley 
half  understood  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  slight  but 
^significant  emphasis,  with  which  Marget  intimated  that  "  the 
minister  and  Miss  Katie"  were  waiting  to  see  him. 

The  youth  went  with  great  readiness.  They  were,  at  least, 
of  all  others,  the  friends  whom  Huntley  was  the  least  re 
luctant  to  confide  in,  and  whose  kindness  he  appreciated 
best. 

And  when  pretty  Katie  Logan  sprang  forward,  still  half 
crying,  and  with  bright  tears  hanging  upon  her  eye-lashes,  to 
take  her  old  playmate's  hand,  almost  tenderly,  in  her  great 
concern  and  sympathy  for  him,  the  lad's  heart  warmed,  he 
could  scarcely  tell  how.  He  felt  involuntarily,  almost  un 
willingly,  as  if  this  salutation  and  regard  all  to  himself  was 
a  sudden  little  refuge  of  brighter  life  opened  for  him  out  of 
the  universal  sorrow  which  was  about  his  own  house  and 
way.  The  tears  came  to  Huntley's  eyes — but  they  were 
tears  of  relief,  of  ease  and  comfort  to  his  heart.  He  almost 
thought  he  could  have  liked,  if  Katie  had  been  alone,  to  sit 
down  by  her  side,  and  tell  her  all  that  he  had  suffered,  all 


46  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

that  he  looked  forward  to.  But  the  sight  of  the  minister, 
fortunately,  composed  Huntley.  Dr.  Logan,  excellent  man 
as  he  was,  did  not  seem  so  desirable  a  confidant. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  blame  you,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the 
minister,  earnestly  ;  "  it  was  a  shock  to  my  feelings,  I  allow, 
but  do  not  think  of  getting  blame  from  me,  Huntley.  I 
was  shut  up  entirely  in  the  matter,  myself;  I  did  not  see 
what  to  do ;  and  I  could  not  venture  to  say  that  it  was  not 
the  wisest  thing,  and  the  only  plan  to  clear  your  way." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  for  Huntley  either  would  not,  or 
could  not,  speak — and  then  Dr.  Logan  resumed  : 

"  We  came  this  morning,  Katie  and  me,  to  see  what  use 
we  could  be ;  but  now  the  worst's  over,  Huntley,  I'm 
thinking  we'll  just  go  our  way  back  again,  and  leave  you 
to  rest — for  Katie  thinks  your  mother  will  be  best  pleased 
to  be  alone." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Huntley,  looking  eagerly  into 
Katie's  face. 

"  Yes,  unless  I  could  be  your  real  sister  for  a  while,  as 
long  as  Mrs.  Livingstone*  needed  me,"  said  Katie,  with  a 
smile,  "  and  I  almost  wish  I  could— I  am  so  good  at  it — to 
take  care  of  you  boys." 

"  There  is  no  fear   of  us  now,"   said    Huntley.     "  The 
"worst's  over,  as  the  minister  says.     We've   had  no  time  to 
think  what  we're  to  do,  Dr.  Logan  ;  but  I'll  come  and  tellf 
you  whenever  wre  can  see  what's  before  us." 

"I'll  be  very  glad,  Huntley;  but  I'll  tell  you  what's 
better  than  telling  me,"  said  Dr.  Logan.  "  Katie  has  a 
cousin,  a  very  clever  writer  in  Edinburgh — I  knew  there 
was  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  I  had  very  near 
forgotten — if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  go  in,  it's  not 
very  far,  and  get  him  to  manage  the  whole  thing  for  you. 
Here's  the  address  that  Katie  wrote  down  last  night.  Tell 
your  mother  about  it,  Huntley,  and  that  it's  my  advice 
you  should  have  a  sound  man  in  the  law  to  look  after  your 
concerns ;  and  come  down  to  the  manse  as  soon  as  you  can, 
if  it  were  only  for  a  change  ;  and  you'll  give  your  mother 
our  regards,  and  we'll  bid  you  good-day." 

"And  dinna  think  more  than  you  should,  or  grieve  more, 
Huntley — and  come  and  see  us,"  said  Katie,  offering  him 
her  hand  again. 

Huntley  took  it,  half  joyfully,  half  inclined  to  burst  out 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW.  47 

into  boyish  tears  once  more.  He  thought  it  would  have 
been  a  comfort  and  refreshment  to  have  had  her  here,  this 
wearied,  melancholy  day.  But  somehow,  he  did  not  think 
with  equal  satisfaction  of  Katie's  cousin.  It  seemed  to 
Huntley  he  would  almost  rather  employ  any  "  writer"  than 
this  one,  to  smooth  out  the  raveled  concerns  of  Norlaw. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

COMMON  daylight,  common  life,  the  dead  buried  out  of 
their  sight,  the  windows  open,  the  servants  coming  to  ask 
common  questions  about  the  cattle  and  the  land.  Nothing 
changed,  except  that  the  father  was  no  longer  visible  among 
them — that  Huntley  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  and  the 
Mistress  grew  familiar  with  her  widow's  cap.  Oh,  cruel 
life  !  This  was  how  it  swallowed  up  all  the  solemnities  of 
their  grief. 

,  And  now  it  was  the  evening,  and  the  eager  youths  could 
be  restrained  no  longer.  Common  custom  had  aroused 
even  the  Mistress  out  of  her  inaction  ,  sitting  by  the  corner 
window,  she  had  once  more  begun  mechanically  to  notice 
what  went  and  came  at  the  kitchen  door — had  been  very 
angry  with  the  packman,  who  had  seduced  Jenny  to  admit 
him — and  with  Jenny  for  so  far  forgetting  the  decorum  due 
to  "  an  afflicted  house ;"  had  even  once  noticed,  and  been 
partially  displeased  by  the  black  ribbons  in  Marget's  cap, 
which  it  was  extravagant  to  wear  in  the  morning  ;  and  with 
melancholy  self-reproof  had  opened  the  work  basket,  which 
had  been  left  to  gather  dust  for  weeks  past. 

"  I  iieedna  be  idle  now" — the  Mistress  said  to  herself,  with 
a  heavy  sigh ;  and  Huntley  and  (Patie  perceived  that  it  was 
no  longer  too  early  to  enter  upon  their  own  plans  and 
views. 

With  this  purpose,  they  came  to  her  about  sunset,  when 
she  had  settled  herself  after  her  old  fashion  to  her  evening's 
work.  She  saw  instinctively  what  was  coming,  and,  witt 
natural  feeling,  shrunk  for  the  moment.  She  was  a  little 
impatient,  too,  her  grief  taking  that  form. 

"Keep  a  distance,  keep  a  distance,  bairns!"  cried  the 


48  THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW. 

Mistress  ;  "  let  me  have  room  to  breathe  in !  and  I'm  sure  if 
ye  were  but  lassies,  and  could  have  something  in  your  hands 
to  do,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  me.  There's  Jenny,  the 
light-headed  thing,  taken  her  stocking  to  the  door,  as  if 
nothing  was  amiss  in  the  house.  Pity  me  ! — but  I'll  not  be 
lashed  with  her  long,  that's  a  comfort  to  think  of.  Laddies,  lad 
dies,  can  ye  no  keep  still  ?  What  are  ye  a'  wanting  with  me  ?" 

"  Mother,  it's  time  to  think  what  we're  to  do ;  neither 
Patie  nor  me  can  keep  quiet,  when  we  think  of  what's  be 
fore  us,"  said  Huntley — "  and  there's  little  comfort  in  set 
tling  on  any  thing  till  we  can  speak  of  it  to  you." 

The  Mistress  gave  way  at  these  words  to  a  sudden  little 
outbreak  of  tears,  which  you  might  almost  have  supposed 
were  tears  of  anger,  and  which  she  wiped  off  hurriedly  with 
an  agitated  hand.  Then  she  proceeded  very  rapidly  with 
the  work  she  had  taken  up,  which  was  a  dark  gray  woolen 
stocking — a  familiar  work,  which  she  could  get  on  with  almost 
without  looking  at  it.  She  did  look  at  her  knitting,  how 
ever,  intently,  bending  her  head  over  it,  not  venturing  to 
look  up  at  her  children ;  and  thus  it  was  that  they  found 
themselves  permitted  to  proceed. 

"  Mother,"  said  Huntley,  with  a  deep  blush — "  I'm  a 
man,  but  I've  learned  nothing  to  make  my  bread  by.  Be 
cause  I'm  the  eldest,  and  should  be  of  most  use,  I'm  the 
greatest  burden.  I  understand  about  the  land  and  the  cat 
tle,  and  after  a  while  I  might  manage  a  farm,  but  that's 
slow  work  and  weary — and  the  first  that  should  be  done  is 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  Hold  your  peace  !"  cried  the  Mistress,  with  a  break  in 
her  voice  ;  "  how  dare  ye  say  the  like  of  that  to  your  mo 
ther  ?  Are  you  not  my  eldest  son,  the  stay  of  the  house  ? 
Wherefore  do  ye  say  this  to  me  ?" 

"  Because  it's  true,  mother,"  said  Huntley,  firmly  ;  "  and 
though  it's  true  I'm  not  discouraged.  The  worst  is,  I  see 
nothing  I  can  do  near  you,  as  I  might  have  done  if  I  had 
been  younger,  and  had  time  to  spare  to  learn  a  trade.  Such 
as  it  is,  I'm  very  well  content  with  my  trade,  too ;  but  what 
could  I  do  with  it  here  ?  Get  a  place  as  a  grieve,  maybe, 
through  Tyneside's  help,  and  the  minister's,  and  be  able  to 
stock  a  small  farm  by  the  time  I  was  forty  years  old.  But 
that  would  please  neither  you  nor  me.  Mother,  you  must 
send  me  away !" 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  49 

The  Mistress  did  not  look  up,  did  not  move — went  on 
steadily  with  her  rapid  knitting — but  she  said  : — 

"  Where  ?"  with  a  sharp  accent,  like  a  cry. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  said  Huntley,  slowly ;  "  If 
I  went  to  America,  or  Canada,  or  any  such  place,  I  would 
be  like  to  stay.  My  mind's  against  staying ;  I  want  to  come 
back  —  to  keep  home  in  my  eye.  So  I  say  Australia, 
mother." 

"America,  Canada,  Australia ! — the  laddie's  wild !"  cried 
the  Mistress.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  ye'll  be  an  emigrant  ?  a 
bairn  of  mine  ?" 

Emigration  was  not  then  what  it  is  now  ;  it  was  the  last 
resort — sadly  resisted,  sadly  yielded  to — of  the  "  broken 
man ;"  and  Huntley's  mother  saw  her  son,  in  imagination, 
in  a  dreary  den  of  a  cabin,  in  a  poor  little  trading  ship,  with 
a  bundle  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  and  despair  in  his  heart, 
when  he  spoke  of  going  away. 

"  There's  more  kinds  of  emigrants  than  one  kind,  mother," 
said  Patie. 

"Ay,"  said  the  Mistress,  her  imagination  shifting,  in  spite 
of  her,  to  a  dismal  family  scene,  in  which  the  poor  wife  had 
the  baby  tied  on  her  back  in  a  shawl,  and  the  children  at 
her  feet  were  crying  with  cold  and  hanger,  and  the  husband 
at  her  side  looking  desperate.  "  I've  seen  folk  on  the  road 
to  America — ay,  laddies,  mony  a  time.  I'm  older  than  you 
are.  I  ken  what  like  they  look ;  but  pity  me,  did  I  ever 
think  the  like  of  that  would  be  evened  to  a  bairn  of 
mine !" 

"  Mother,"  said  Huntley,  with  a  cheerfulness  which  he  did 
not  quite  feel,  "  an  emigrant  goes  away  to  stay — I  should 
not  do  that — I  am  going,  if  I  can,  to  make  a  fortune,  and 
come  home — and  it's  not  America ;  there  are  towns  there 
already  like  our  own,  and  a  man,  I  suppose,  has  only  a  great 
er  chance  of  getting  bread  enough  to  eat.  I  could  get  bread 
enough  in  our  own  country-side ;  but  I  mean  to  get  more  if 
I  can — I  mean  to  get  a  sheep  farm  and  grow  rich,  as  every 
body  does  out  there." 

"  Poor  laddie !  Do  they  sell  sheep  and  lands  out  there  to 
them  that  have  no  siller  ?"  said  the  Mistress.  "  If  you  canna 
stock  a  farm  at  name,  where  you're  kent  and  your  name  re 
spected,  Huntley  Livingstone,  how  will  you  do  it  there  ?^ 

"That's  just  what  I  have  to  find  out,"  said  Huntley,  with 

3 


50  THE    LA.IRD     OF     NOELAW. 

spirit ;  "  a  man  may  be  clear  lie's  to  do  a  thing,  without  see 
ing  how  at  the  moment.  With  your  consent,  I'm  going  to 
Australia,  mother ;  if  there's  any  thing  over,  when  all  our 
affairs  are  settled,  I'll  get  my  share — and  as  for  the  sheep 
and  the  land,  they're  in  Providence;  but  I  doubt  them  as 
little  as  if  they  were  on  the  lea  before  my  eyes.  I'm  no'  a 
man  out  of  a  town  that  knows  nothing  about  it.  I'm  coun 
try  bred  and  hare  been  among  beasts  all  my  days.  Do  you 
think  I'm  feared  !  Though  I've  little  to  start  with,  mother, 
you'll  see  me  back  rich  enough  to  do  credit  to  the  name  of 
Noriaw !" 

His  mother  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  easy  to  make  a  fortune  on  a  summer  night  at  hame, 
before  a  lad's  twenty,  or  kens  the  world,"  she  said.  "  I've 
seen  mony  a  stronger  man  than  you,  Huntley,  come  hame 
baith  penniless  and  hopeless — and  the  like  of  such  grand 
plans,  they're  but  trouble  and  sadness  to  me." 

Perhaps  Huntley  wras  discouraged  by  the  words ;  at  all 
events  he  made  no  reply — and  the  mind  of  his  mother  grad 
ually  expanded.  She  looked  up  from  her  knitting  suddenly, 
with  a  rapid  tender  glance. 

"  Maybe  I'm  wrong,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  there's  some 
will  win  and  some  will  fail  in  spite  of  the  haill  world.  The 
Lord  take  the  care  of  my  bairns  !  Who  am  I,  that  I  should 
be  able  to  guide  you,  three  lads,  coming  to  be  men  ?  Hunt- 
ley,  you're  the  auldest,  and  you're  strong.  I  canna  say  stay  at 
hame — I  dinna  see  what  to  bid  you  do.  You  must  take  your 
ain  will,  and  I'll  no'  oppose." 

If  Huntley  thanked  his  mother  at  all  it  was  in  very  few 
words,  for  the  politenesses  were  not  cultivated  among  them, 
the  feelings  of  this  Scottish  family  lying  somewhat  deep,  and 
expressing  themselves  otherwise  than  in  common  words ; 
but  the  Mistress  brushed  her  hand  over  her  eyes  hurriedly, 
with  something  like  a  restrained  sob,  intermitting  for  a  sin 
gle  instant,  and  no  longer,  the  rapid  glitter  of  her  "  wires" 
— but  you  would  scarcely  have  supposed  that  the  heart  of 
the  mother  was  moved  thus  far,  to  hear  the  tone  of  her  next 
words.  She  turned  to  her  second  son  without  looking  at 
him. 

"  And  where  are  you  for,  Patie  Livingstone  ?"  said  the 
Mistress,  with  almost  a  sarcastic  sharpness.  "  It  should  be 
India,  or  the  North  Pole  to  pleasure  you." 


THE     LAIRD     OP     NORLAW.  51 

Patie  was  not  emboldened  by  this  address ;  it  seemed,  in 
deed,  rather  to  discomfit  the  lad  ;  not  as  a  reproach,  but  as 
showing  a  greater  expectation  of  his  purposes  than  they 
warranted. 

"  You  know  what  I  aimed  at  long  ago,  mother,"  he  said, 
with  hesitation.  "  It  may  be  that  we  can  ill  afford  a  'pren 
tice  time  now — but  I'm  no'  above  working  while  I  learn.  I 
can  scramble  up  as  well  as  Huntley.  I'll  go  either  to  Glas 
gow  or  to  Liverpool,  to  one  of  the  founderies  there." 

"  Folk  dinna  learn  to  be  civil  engineers  in  founderies,"  said 
the  Mistress ;  "  they're  nothing  better  than  smiths  at  the 
anvil.  You  wanted  to  build  a  light-house,  Patie,  when  ye 
were  a  little  bairn — but  you'll  no'  learn  there." 

"  I'll  maybe  learn  better.  There's  to  be  railroads  soon, 
everywhere,"  said  Patie,  with  a  little  glow  upon  his  face. 
"  I'll" do  what  I  can — if  I'm  only  to  be  a  smith,  I'll  be  a  smith 
like  a  man,  and  learn  my  business.  The  light-house  was  a 
fancy  ;  but  I  may  learn  what's  as  good,  and  more  profitable. 
There's  some  railroads  already,  mother,  and  there's  more 
beginning  every  day." 

"  My  poor  bairn  !"  said  the  Mistress,  for  the  first  time 
bestowing  a  glance  of  pity  upon  Patie — "  if  your  fortune 
has  to  wait  for  its  making  till  folk  gang  riding  over  a'  the 
roads  on  steam  horses,  like  what's  written  in  the  papers,  I'll 
never  live  to  see  it.  There's  that  man  they  ca'  Stephenson, 
he's  made  something  or  other  that's  a  great  wonder ;  but, 
laddie,  you  dinna  think  that  roads  like  that  can  go  far  ? 
They  may  have  them  up  about  London — and  truly  you  might 
live  to  make  another,  I'll  no'  say — but  I  would  rather  build 
a  tower  to  keep  ships  from  being  wrecked  than  make  a  road 
for  folk  to  break  their  necks  on,  if  it  was  me." 

"  Folk  that  are  born  to  break  their  necks  will  break  them 
on  any  kind  of  road,"  said  Patie,  with  great  gravity ;  "  but 
I've  read  about  it  all,  and  I  think  a  man  only  needs  to  know 
what  he  has  to  do,  to  thrive  ;  and  besides,  mother,  there's 
more  need  for  engines  than  upon  railroads.  It's  a  business 
worth  a  man's  while." 

"Patie,"  said  the  Mistress,  solemnly,  "I've  given  my 
consent  to  Huntley  to  gang  thousands  of  miles  away  over 
the  sea  ;  but  if  you  gang  among  thae  engines,  that  are  mer 
ciless  and  senseless,  and  'can  tear  a  living  creature  like  a  rag 
of  claith— I've  seen  them,  laddie,  with  my  own  e'en,  clang- 


52  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

ing  and  clinking  like  the  evil  place  itself— I'll  think  it's  Patie 
that's  in  the  lion's  mouth,  and  no'  my  eldest  son." 

"  Well,  mother !"  said  Patie,  sturdily — "  if  I  were  in  the 
lion's  mouth,  and  yet  had  room  to  keep  clear,  would  you  be 
feared  for  me  ?" 

This  appeal  took  the  Mistress  entirely  without  preparation. 
She  brushed  her  hands  hastily  over  her  eyes  once  more,  and 
went  on  with  her  knitting.  Then  a  long,  hard-drawn  breath, 
which  was  not  a  sigh,  came  from  the  mother's  breast ;  in  the 
midst  of  her  objections,  her  determination  not  to  be  satisfied, 
a  certain  unaccountable  pride  in  the  vigor,  and  strength,  and 
resolution  of  her  sons  rose  in  the  kindred  spirit  of  their 
mother.  She  was  not  "  feared  " — neither  for  one  nor  the 
other  of  the  bold  youths  by  her  side.  Her  own  strong  vi 
tality  went  forth  with  them,  with  an  indescribable  swell  of 
exhilaration — yet  she  was  their  mother,  and  a  widow,  and 
it  wrung  her  heart  to  arrange  quietly  how  they  were  to  leave 
her  and  their  home. 

"  And  me  ?"  said  Cosmo,  coming  to  his  mother's  side. 

lie  had  no  determination  to  announce — he  came  out  of 
his  thoughts,  and  his  musings,  and  his  earnest  listening,  to 
lay  that  white,  long  hand  of  his  upon  his  mother's  arm.  It 
was  the  touch  which  made  the  full  cup  run  over.  The  wid 
ow  leaned  her  head  suddenly  upon  her  boy's  shoulder,  sur 
prised  into  an  outburst  of  te^rs  and  weakness,  unusual  and 
overpowering — and  the  other  lads  carne  close  to  this  group, 
touched  to  the  heart  like  their  mother.  They  cried  out 
among  their  tears  that  Cosmo  must  not  go  away — that  he 
was  too  young — too  tender !  What  they  had  not  felt  for 
themselves,  they  felt  for  him — there  seemed  something  for 
lorn,  pathetic,  miserable,  in  the  very  thought  of  this  boy 
going  forth  to  meet  the  world  and  its  troubles.  This  boy, 
the  child  of  the  house,  the  son  who  was  like  his  father,  the 
tenderest  spirit  of  them  all ! 

Yet  Cosmo,  who  had  no  plans,  and  who  was  only  six 
teen,  was  rather  indignant  at  this  universal  conclusion.  He 
yielded  at  last,  only  because  the  tears  were  still  in  his  moth 
er's  eyes,  and  because  they  were  all  more  persistent  than  he 
was — and  sat  down  at  a  little  distance,  not  sullen,  but  as 
near  so  as  was  possible  to  him,  his  cheek  glowing  with  a 
suspicion  that  they  thought  him  a  child.  But  soon  the  con 
versation  passed  to  other  matters,  which  Cosmo  could  not 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  53 

resist.  They  began  to  speak  of  Melmar,  their  unprovoked 
enemy,  and  then  the  three  lads  looked  at  each  other,  taking 
resolution  from  that  telegraphic  conference ;  and  Huntley, 
with  the  blood  rising  in  his  cheeks,  for  the  first  time  asked 
his  mother,  in  the  name  of  them  all,  for  that  tale  which  her 
husband,  on  his  death-bed,  had  deputed  her  to  tell  them,  the 
story  of  the  will  which  was  in  the  mid- chamber,  and  that 
Mary  who  was  Mary  of  Melmar  evermore  in  the  memory 
of  Norlaw. 

At  the  question  the  tears  dried  out  of  the  Mistress's  eyes, 
an  impatient  color  came  to  her  face — and  it  was  so  hard  to 
elicit  this  story  from  her  aggrieved  and  unsympathetic  mind, 
that  it  may  be  better  for  Mrs.  Livingstone,  in  the  estimation 
of  other  people,  if  we  tell  what  she  told  in  other  words  than 
hers. 


CHAPTEE    XI. 

YET  we  do  not  see  why  we  are  called  upon  to  defend  Mrs. 
Livingstone,  who  was  very  well  able,  under  most  circum 
stances,  to  take  care  of  herself.  She  did  not  by  any  means 
receive  her  sons'  inquiries  with  a  good  grace.  On  the  con 
trary,  she  evaded  them  hotly,  with  unmistakable  dislike  and 
impatience. 

"  Mary  of  Me'mar !  what  is  she  to  you  ?"  said  the  Mis 
tress.  "Let  bygones  be  bygones,  bairns — she's  been  the 
fash  of  my  life*  one  way  and  another.  Hold  your  peace, 
Cosmo  Livingstone !  Do  you  think  I  can  tell  this  like  a 
story  out  of  a  book.  There's  plenty  gossips  in  the  country 
side  could  tell  you  the  ins  and  the  outs  of  it  better  than 
me — " 

"  About  the  mid-chamber  and  the  will,  mother  ?"  asked 
Patrick 

"  Wee!,  maybe,  no  about  that,"  said  the  Mistress,  slightly 
mollified;  "if  that's  what  ye  want.  This  Mary  Huntley, 
laddies,  I  ken  very  little  about  her.  She  was  away  out  ot 
these  parts  before  my  time.  I  never  doubted  she  was 
light-headed,  and  liked  to  be  admired  and  petted.  She  was 
Me'mar's  only  bairn ;  maybe  that  might  be  some  excuse  for 


54  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

her — for  he  was  an  auld  man  and  fond.  But,  kind  as  he 
was,  she  ran  away  from  him  to  marry  some  lad  that  nae- 
body  kent — and  went  off  out  of  the  country  with  her  ne'er- 
do-weel  man,  and  has  never  been  heard  tell  of  from  that 
time  to  this — that's  a'  I  ken  about  her." 

This  was  said  so  peremptorily  and  conclusively,  setting 
aside  at  once  any  further  question,  that  even  these  lads,  who 
were  not  particularly  skilled  in  the  heart  or  its  emotions, 
perceived  by  instinct,  that  their  mother  knew  a  great  deal 
more  about  her — more  than  any  inducement  in  the  world 
could  persuade  her  to  tell. 

"  I  've  heard  that  Me'mar  was  hurt  to  the  heart,"  said  the 
Mistress,  "and  no  much  wonder.  His  bairn  that  he  had 
thought  nothing  too  good  for !  and  to  think  of  her  running 
off  from  him,  a  lone  auld  man,  to  be  married  upon  a  stran 
ger-lad  without  friends,  that  naebody  kent  any  good  o',  and 
that  turned  out  just  as  was  to  be  expected.  Oh,  aye!  it 
does  grand  to  make  into  a  story — and  the  like  of  you,  you 
think  it  all  for  love,  and  a  warm  heart,  and  a'  the  rest  of  it ; 
but  I  think  it's  but  an  ill  heart  that  would  desert  hame 
and  friends,  and  an  auld  man  above  three-score,  for  its  ain 
will  and  pleasure.  So  Me'mar  took  it  very  sore  to  heart ; 
he  would  not  have  her  name  named  to  him  lor  years.  And 
the  next  living  creature  in  this  world  that  he  liked  best, 
after  his  ungrateful  daughter,  was — laddies,  you'll  no'  be 
surprised — just  him  that's  gone  from  us — that  everybody 
likit  weel — just  Norlaw." 

There  was  a  pause  after  this,  the  Mistress's  displeasure 
melting  into  a  sob  of  her  permanent  grief;  and  then  the  tale 
was  resumed  more  gently,  more  slowly,  as  if  she  had  sinned 
against  the  dead  by  the  warmth  and  almost  resentment  of 
her  first  words. 

"  Me'mar  lived  to  be  an  auld  man,"  said  the  Mistress. 
"  He  aye  lived  on  till  Patie  was  about  five  years  auld,  and 
a'  our  bairns  born.  He  was  very  good  aye  to  me ;  mony's 
the  present  he  sent  me,  when  I  was  a  young  thing,  and  was 
more  heeding  for  bonnie-dies,  and  took  great  notice  of 
Huntley,  and  was  kind  to  the  whole  house.  It  was  said 
through  a'  the  country-side  that  ye  were  to  be  his  heirs,  and 
truly  so  you  might  have  been,  but  for  one  thing  and  anither  ; 
no'  that  I'm  heeding — you'll  be  a'  the  better  for  making 
your  way  in  the  world  yourselves." 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  55 

"And  tne  will,  mother?"  said  Huntley,  with  a  little 
eagerness. 

"  I'm  coming  to  the  will ;  have  patience ;"  said  the  Mis 
tress,  who  had  not  a  great  deal  herself,  to  tell  the  truth. 
"  Bairns,  it's  no'  time  yet  for  me  to  speak  to  you  of  your 
father;  but  he  was  aye  a  just  man,  with  a  tender  heart  for 
the  unfortunate — you  ken  that  as  well  as  me.  He  wouldna 
take  advantage  of  another  man's  weakness,  or  another  man's 
ill-doing,  far  less  of  a  poor  silly  lassie,  that,  maybe,  didna 
ken  what  she  was  about.  And  when  the  old  man  made  his 
will,  Norlaw  would  not  let  him  leave  his  lands  beyond  his 
ain  flesh  and  blood.  So  the  will  was  made,  that  Mary 
Huntley,  if  she  ever  came  back,  was  to  be  heir  of  Melrnar, 
and  if  she  never  came  back,  nor  could  be  heard  tell  of, 
every  thing  was  left  to  Patrick  Livingstone,  of  Norlaw." 

It  was  impossible  to  restrain  the  start  of  amazement  with 
which  Huntley,  growing  red  and  agitated,  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  the  others  stirred  out  of  their  quietness  of  listen 
ing.  Their  mother  took  no  time  to  answer  the  eager  ques 
tions  in  their  eyes,  nor  to  hear  even  the  exclamations  which 
burst  from  them  unawares.  She  bent  her  head  again,  and 
drew  through  her  fingers,  rapidly,  the  hem  of  her  apron. 
She  did  not  see,  nor  seem  to  think  of,  her  children.  Her 
mind  was  busy  about  the  heaviest  epoch  of  her  own  life. 

"When  Melrnar  died,  search  was  caused  to  be  made 
every  place  for  his  daughter,"  said  the  Mistress,  passing 
back  and  forwards  through  her  hands  this  tight  strip  of  her 
apron.  "  Your  father  thought  of  nothing  else,  night  nor 
day;  a' for  justice,  bairns,  doubtless  for  justice — that  no 
body  might  think  he  would  take  an  advantage  of  his  kins 
woman,  though  he  could  not  approve  of  her  ways !  He 
went  to  Edinburgh  himself,  and  from  there  to  London.  I 
was  young  then,  and  Cosmo  little  mair  than  an  infant,  and 
a'  thing  left  in  my  hands.  Aye  this  one  and  the  other  one 
coming  to  tell  about  Mary  Huntley— and  Norlaw  away 
looking  for  her — and  the  very  papers  full  of  the  heiress — 
and  me  my  lane  in  the  house,  and  little  used  to  be  left  to 
mysel'.  I  mind  every  thing  as  if  it  had  happened  this  very 
day." 

The  Mistress  paused  once  more— it  was  only  to  draw  a 
long  breath  of  pain,  ere  she  hurried  on  with  the  unwelcome 
tale,  which  now  had  a  strange  interest,  even  for  herself. 


56  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

The  boys  could  not  tell  what  was  the  bitterness  of  the  time 
which  their  mother  indicated  by  these  compressed  and  sig 
nificant  words  ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  hear  even  her  voice 
without  perceiving  something  of  the  long-past  troubles,  in 
tense  and  vivid  as  her  nature,  which  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  induced  her  to  disclose. 

"  The  upshot  was,  she  could  not  be  found,"  said  the  Mis 
tress,  abruptly  ;  "  either  she  never  heard  tell  that  she  was 
sought  for,  or  she  took  guilt  to  herself,  and  would  not  ap 
pear.  They  kept  up  the  search  as  long  as  a  year,  but  they 
never  heard  a  word,  or  got  a  clue  to  where  she  was." 

"  And  then  ?"  cried  Huntley,  with  extreme  excitement. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  Mistress — "  was  he  a  man  to  take 
another  person's  lands,  when  but  a  year  had  gane  ?"  She 
spoke  with  a  visible  self-restraint,  strong  and  bitter — the 
coercion  which  a  mind  of  energy  and  power  puts  upon  it 
self,  determining  not  to  think  otherwise  than  with  approba 
tion  of  the  acts  of  a  weaker  nature — and  with  something 
deeper  underlying  even  this.  "  He  said  she  would  still 
come  hame  some  day,  as  was  most  likely.  He  would  not 
take  up  her  rights,  and  her  living,  as  he  was  persuaded  in 
his  mind.  The  will  was  proved  in  law,  for  her  sake,  but  he 
would  not  take  possession  of  the  land,  nor  put  forward  his 
claims  to  it,  because  he  said  she  lived,  and  would  come 
hame.  So,  laddies,  there's  the  tale.  A  Mr.  Huntley,  a 
writer,  from  the  north  country,  a  far-away  friend,  came  in 
and  claimed  as  next  of  kin.  Mary  of  Melmar  was  lost  and 
gane,  and  could  not  be  found,  and  Norlaw  would  not  put 
in  his  ain  claim,  though  it  was  clear.  He  said  it  would  be 
taking  her  rights,  and  that  then  she  would  never  come  back 
to  claim  her  land.  So  the  strange  man  got  possession  and 
kept  it,  and  hated  Norlaw.  And  from  that  day  to  this, 
what  with  having  an  enemy,  and  the  thought  of  that  un 
fortunate  woman  coming  back,  and  the  knowledge  in  his 
heart  that  he  had  let  a  wrongful  heir  step  in — what  with  all 
that  bairns,  and  more  than  that,  another  day  of  prosperity 
never  came  to  this  house  of  Norlaw." 

"  Then  we  are  the  heirs  of  Me'mar  !"  said  Huntley  ;  "  we, 
and  not  my  father's  enemy !  Mother,  why  did  we  never 
hear  this  before  ?" 

"  N"a,  lads,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  an  indescribable  bit 
terness  in  her  tone ;  "  it's  her  and  her  bairns  that  are  the 


THE     LAIKD    OF    NOBLA.W.  57 

heirs — and  they're  to  be  found,  and  claim  their  inheritance, 
soon  or  syne." 

"  Then  this  is  what  I'll  do,"  cried  Cosmo,  springing  to 
his  feet ;  "  I'll  go  over  all  the  world,  but  I'll  find  Mary  of 
Melrnar !  I'm  not  so  strong  as  Huntley,  or  as  Patie,  but 
I'm  strong  enough  for  this.  I'll  do  what  my  father  wished 
— if  she  should  be  in  the  furtherest  corner  of  the  earth,  I'll 
bring  her  hame  !" 

To  the  extreme  amazement  of  the  boys,  the  Mistress  laid 
a  violent  hand  on  Cosmo's  shoulder,  and,  either  with  inten 
tion  or  unconsciously,  shook  the  whole  frame  of  the  slender 
lad  with  her  impetuous  grasp. 

"  Will  ye  ?"  cried  his  mother,  with  a  sharpness  of  suffer 
ing  in  her  voice  that  confounded  them.  "  Is  it  no'  enough, 
all  that's  past  ?  Am  I  to  begin  again  ?  Am  I  to  bring  up 
sons  for  her  service?  Oh,  patience,  patience!  it's  more 
than  a  woman  like  me  can  bear !" 

Amazed,  grieved,  disturbed  by  her  words  and  her  aspect, 
her  sons  gathered  around  her.  She  pushed  them  away  im 
patiently,  and  rose  up. 

"  Bairns,  dinna  anger  me  ! — I'm  no'  meek  enough,"  said 
the  Mistress,  her  face  flushing  with  a  mixture  of  mortifica 
tion  and  displeasure.  "  You've  had  your  will,  and  heard 
the  story — but  I  tell  you  this  woman's  been  a  vexation  to 
me  all  my  life — and  it's  no'  your  part,  any  one  of  you,  to 
begin  it  a'  over  again." 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THIS  story,  which  Mrs.  Livingstone  told  with  reluctance, 
and,  in  fact,  did  not  tell  half  of,  was,  though  the  youths  did 
not  know  it,  the  story  of  the  very  bitterest  portion  of  their 
mother's  life.  The  Mistress  never  told,  either  to  them  or  to 
any  one  else,  how,  roused  in  her  honest  love  and  wifely  sin 
cerity  into  sympathy  with  her  husband's  generous  efforts  to 
preserve  her  own  inheritance  to  his  runaway  cousin,  she 
had  very  soon  good  reason  to  be  sick  of  the  very  name  of 
Mary  of  Me'mar ;  how  she  found  out  that,  after  years  long 


58  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

of  her  faithful,  warm-hearted,  affectionate  society,  after  the 
birth  of  children  and  consecration  of  time,  after  all  the  un 
failing  courage  and  exertions,  by  which  her  stout  spirit  had 
done  much  to  set  him  right  in  the  world,  and,  above  all,  in 
spite  of  the  unfeigned  and  undivided  love  of  a  full  heart 
like  her  own,  the  visionary  heart  of  her  husband  had  all  this 
time  been  hankering  after  his  first  love. 

Without  preparation,  and  without  softening,  the  Mistress 
found  this  out.  He  would  not  advantage  his  own  family  at 
the  cost  of  Mary  ;  he  would  seek  for  Mary  through  the  whole 
world.  These  had  been  the  words  of  Norlaw,  ten  years  after 
Mary  of  Melraar's  disappearance,  and  even  years  after  he  had 
become  the  father  of  Huntley.  The  unsuspecting  wife 
thought  no  harm  ;  then  he  went  and  came  for  a  whole  year 
seeking  for  his  cousin ;  and  during  that  time,  left  alone  day 
after  day,  and  month  after  month,  the  mistress  of  Norlaw 
found  out  the  secret.  It  was  a  hard  thing  for  her,  with  her 
strong  personality  and  burning  individual  heart,  to  bear ; 
but  she  did  bear  it  with  an  indignant  heroism,  never  saying 
a  word  to  mortal  ear.  He  himself  never  knew  that  she  had 
discovered  his  prior  love,  or  resented  it.  She  would  have 
scorned  herself  could  .she  have  reproached  him  or  even 
made  him  conscious  of  her  own  feelings.  Good  fortune  and 
strong  affection  at  the  bottom  happily  kept  contempt  out  of 
the  Mistress's  indignation  ;  but  her  heart  continued  sore  for 
years  with  the  discovery — sore,  mortified,  humiliated.  To 
think  that  all  her  wifely,  faithful  regard  had  clung  unwit 
tingly  to  a  man  who,  professing  to  cherish  her,  followed, 
with  a  wandering  heart,  a  girl  who  had  run  away  from  him 
years  before  to  be  another  man's  wife  !  The  Mistress  had 
borne  it  steadily  and  soberly,  so  that  no  one  knew  of  her 
discovery,  but  she  had  never  got  beyond  this  abiding  mor 
tification  and  injury;  and  it  was  not  much  wonder  that  she 
started  with  a  sudden  burst  of  exasperated  feeling,  when 
Cosmo,  her  own  son,  echoed  his  father's  foolish  words.  Her 
youngest  boy,  her  favorite  and  last  nursling,  the  one  bird 
that  was  to  be  left  in  the  nest,  could  stir  to  this  same  mad 
search,  when  he  had  not  yet  ambition  enough  to  stir  for  his 
own  fortune.  It  was  the  last  drop  which  made  all  this  bit 
terness  run  over.  No  wonder  that  the  Mistress  lost  com 
mand  of  herself  for  once,  and  going  up  to  her  own  room  in 
a  gust  of  aggravated  and  angry  emotions,  thrust  Cosmo 


THE     LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  59 

away  from  her,  and  cried,  "  Am  I  to  bring  up  sons  for  her 
service  '?"  in  the  indignation  of  her  heart. 

Yes,  it  was  a  very  pretty  story  for  romance.  The  young 
girl  running  away,  "all  for  love" — the  faithful  forsaken 
lover  thinking  of  her  in  secret — rising  up  to  defend  her 
rights  after  ten  long  years — eagerly  searching  for  her — and, 
with  a  jealous  tenderness,  refusing  to  do  any  thing  which 
might  compromise  her  title,  while  he  alone  still  fondly 
believed  in  her  return.  A  very  pretty  story,  with  love, 
and  nothing  else,  for  its  theme.  Yet,  unfortunately,  these 
pretty  stories  have  a  dark  enough  aspect  often  on  the  other 
side ;  and  the  Mistress,  mortified,  silent,  indignant,  cheated 
in  her  own  perfect  confidence  and  honest  tenderness,  when 
you  saw  her  behind  the  scenes  of  the  other  pretty  picture, 
took  a  great  deal  of  the  beauty  out  of  that  first-love  and 
romantic  constancy  of  Norlaw. 

When  Mrs.  Livingstone  went  to  her  room,  the  sons, 
vexed  and  troubled,  were  a  long  time  silent.  Cosmo  with 
drew  into  a  corner,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  mother's 
little  table.  He,  too,  was  deeply  mortified,  and  could  not 
keep  back  the  hot  boyish  tears  from  his  eyes — he  felt 
himself  set  aside  like  a  child — he  felt  the  shame  of  a  sensi 
tive  temperament  at  perceiving  how  greatly  his  mother 
was  disturbed.  Somehow  she  seemed  to  have  betrayed 
herself,  and  Cosmo,  jealous  for  her  perfect  honor,  was 
uneasy  and  abashed  at  this  disturbance  of  it ;  while  still 
his  heart,  young,  eager,  inexperienced,  loving  romance, 
secretly  longed  to  hear  more  of  this  mystery,  and  secretly 
repeated  his  determination.  Huntley,  who  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room,  lifting  and  replacing  every  thing 
in  his  way  which  could  be  lifted,  was  simply  confounded 
and  thunderstruck,  which  emotions  Patie  shared  with 
his  elder  brother.  Patie,  however,  was  the  most  practi 
cal  of  the  three,  and  it  was  he  who  first  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Somehow  or  other  this  vexes  my  mother,"  said  Patie ; 
"  let  us  ask  her  no  more  questions  about  it ;  but,  Huntley, 
you  ought  to  know  all  the  hiding-holes  about  the  house. 
You  should  look  up  this  will  and  put  it  in  safe  hands." 

"  In  safe  hands  ?— I'll  act  upon  it  forthwith !  Are  we  to 
keep  terms  with  Melmar  after  all  that's  past,  and  with 
power  to  turn  him  out  of  his  seat?"  cried  Huntley;  "no, 


60  THE     LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

surely ;  I'll  put  it  into  hands  that  will  carry  it  into  effect, 
and  that  without  delay." 

"They  would  want  either  this  Mary,  or  proof  that  she 
was  dead,  before  they  would  do  any  thing  in  it,"  said  Fatie, 
doubtfully ;  "  and  yet  it's  a  shame !" 

"  She  is  not  dead !"  interrupted  Cosmo ;  "  why  my 
mother  should  be  angry,  I  can't  tell ;  but  I'll  find  out  Mary 
of  Melmar,  I  know  I  shall,  though  it  should  be  twenty 
years !" 

"  Be  quiet,  Cosmo,"  said  his  elder  brother,  "  and  see  that 
no  one  troubles  my  mother  with  another  question ;  she  does 
not  like  it,  and  I  will  not  have  her  disturbed ;  but  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  We  know  little  about  business,  and  we're 
not  of  a  patient  race.  Me'mar  had  better  not  come  near 
any  of  us  just  now,  unless  it  were  you,  Patie,  that  can 
master  yourself.  I  should  like  to  knock  him  down,  and  my 
mother  would  do  worse.  I'll  write  to  this  friend  of  the 
minister's,  this  writer,  and  put  it  all  in  his  hands — it's  the 
best  thing  I  can  see.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

Patie  gave  his  assent  readily ;  Cosmo  did  not  say  any 
thing.  The  boy  began  to  feel  his  youth  somewhat  bitterly, 
and  to  think  that  they  did  not  care  for  his  opinion ;  so  he 
went  out,  and  swung  himself  up  by  an  old  elm  tree  into  one 
of  the  vacant  windows  of  the  castle,  a  favorite  seat  of 
Cosmo,  where,  among  the  cool  ivy,  and  hidden  by  the  deep 
recess  of  the  thick  old  wall,  he  could  see  the  sunset,  and 
watch  how  the  shadows  stole  over  the  earth.  The  Eildons 
were  at  his  right  hand,  paling  gradually  out  of  their  royal 
purple  against  the  pale  sky  in  the  east,  and  the  last  long 
rays  of  the  sunset,  too  low  to  reach  them,  fell  golden-yellow 
upon  Tyne,  and  shed  a  pathetic  light  on  the  soft  green  bank 
before  the  door  of  Norlaw.  The  common  sounds  of  life 
were  not  so  subdued  now  about  this  lonely  house ;  even 
the  cackle  of  poultry  and  bark  of  dogs  seemed  louder  since 
the  shutters  were  opened  and  the  curtains  drawn  back — 
and  Marget  went  firmly  forth  upon  her  errands  to  the  byre, 
and  the  hush  and  stealth  of  mourning  had  left  the  place 
already.  Who  would  not  escape  somewhere  into  some 
personal  refuge  out  of  the  oppressive  shadow  of  grief,  while 
youth  remains  to  make  that  possible  ?  Huntley  had  been 
startled  to  feel  that  there  was  such  an  escape  for  himself 
when  Katie  Lonran  took  his  hand  in  the  fullness  of  her 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  61 

sympathy — and  Huntley  and  Patie  together  were  seeking  a 
similar  ease  now  in  discussing  the  plans  of  their  future  life 
together.  Cosmo  was  only  a  boy;  he  had  no  plans  yet 
which  could  be  called  plans — and  he  was  too  young  to  be 
moved  by  the  hand  or  the  voice  of  any  woman.  So  he  sat 
among  the  ivy  in  the  ledge  of  the  deep  old  window,  with 
his  head  uncovered,  his  fair  hair  falling  over  his  long  white 
hands,  and  those  dark  liquid  eyes  of  his  gazing  forth  upon 
as  fair  a  landscape  as  ever  entered  into  the  dream  of  a  poet. 
If  Cosmo  was  a  poet  he  was  not  aware  of  it ;  yet  his 
heart  was  easing  itself  after  his  fashion.  He  was"  too  young 
to  apprehend  the  position  of  his  mother,  and  how  it  broke 
into  the  superficial  romance  of  his  father's  life.  He  thought 
only  of  Mary  of  Melmar,  of  the  girl,  beautiful,  young,  and 
unfortunate,  who  ran  away  "for  love,"  and  had  literally 
left  all  for  her  husband's  sake ;  he  thought  of  displacing  his 
father's  enemy  and  restoring  his  father's  first  love  to  her 
rights.  In  imagination  he  pursued  her  through  all  the 
storied  countries  to  which  a  young  fancy  naturally  turns. 
He  saw  himself  delivering  her  out  of  dangers,  suddenly 
appearing  when  she  was  in  peril  or  poverty,  dispersing  her 
enemies  like  a  champion  of  chivalry,  and  bringing  her  home 
in  triumph.  This  was  how,  while  his  brothers  comforted 
themselves  with  an  earnest  discussion  of  possibilities,  and 
while  his  mother,  differing  from  them  as  age  differs  from 
youth — and  as  personal  bereavement,  which  nothing  can 
ever  make  up,  and  which  changes  the  whole  current  of  a 
life,  differs  from  a  natural  removal  and  separation — returned 
into  the  depths  of  the  past  and  lived  them  over  again — this 
is  how  Cosmo  made  his  first  personal  escape  out  of  his  first 
grief. 


CHAPTEE   XII. 

"  OH  !  Patricia !  Sinclair  has  been  telling  me  such  a 
story,"  cried  a  young  girl,  suddenly  rushing  upon  another, 
in  a  narrow  winding  road  through  the  woods  which  clothed 
a  steep  bank  of  Tyne ;  at  this  spot,  for  one  exclusive 


62  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

mile,  the  rapid  little  river  was  "  private  property,"  tne  em 
bellishment  of  a  gentleman's  grounds — shut  out  from  vul 
gar  admiration.  Tyne,  indifferent  alike  to  admiration  and 
exclusivism,  was  not  less  happy  on  that  account ;  but  foamed 
over  his  stony  channel  as  brisk,  as  brown,  and  as  clear,  as 
when  he  ran  in  unrestricted  freedom  by  the  old  castle  walls 
of  Norlaw.  The  path  was  slippery  and  irregular  with  great 
roots  of  trees,  and  one  or  two  brooks,  unseen,  trickled  down 
the  brae  below  the  underwood,  only  detected  by  the  slender, 
half  visible  rivulet  on  the  path  which  you  had  to  step  across, 
or  the  homely  plank  half  penetrated  by  water,  which  bridged 
over  Tyne's  invisble  tributary.  They  did  not  appear,  these 
fairy  springs,  but  they  added  each  a  tingle,  like  so  many 
harp  strings,  to  the  many  sounds  of  Nature.  Through  this 
winding  road,  or  rather  upon  it,  for  she  was  not  going  any 
where,  the  elder  of  these  two  interlocutors  had  been  for 
some  time  wandering.  She  was  a  delicate  looking  girl  of 
seventeen,  with  blue  eyes  and  pale  golden  hair,  rather  pretty, 
but  very  slight,  and  evidently  not  in  strong  health.  The 
sudden  plunge  down  upon  her,  which  her  younger  sister 
made  from  the  top  of  the  brae,  took  away  Patricia's  breath, 
and  made  her  drop  the  book  which  she  had  been  reading. 
This  was  no  very  great  matter,  for  the  book  was  rather  an 
indifferent  production,  being  one  of  those  books  of  poetry 
which  one  reads  at  seventeen,  and  never  after — but  it  was 
rather  more  important  that  the  color  came  violently  into  her 
pale  cheek,  aad  she  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  side^  with  a 
gasp  which  terrified  the  young  hoiden. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot !"  she  cried,  in  sympathy,  as  eager  as  her 
onslaught  had  been.  "  Oh  !  have  I  hurt  you  ?  I  did  not 
mean  it,  you  know." 

"  No,  Joanna,"  said  Patricia,  faintly,  "  but  you  forget  my 
nerves  always — you  never  had  any  yourself." 

Which  was  perfectly  true,  and  not  to  be  denied.  These 
two,  Patricia  and  Joanna  Huntley,  were  the  only  daughters 
of  their  father's  house — the  only  children,  indeed,  save  one 
son,  who  was  abroad.  There  were  not  many  feminine  family 
names  in  this  branch  of  the  house  of  Huntley,  and  invention 
in  this  matter  being  very  sparely  exercised  in  these  parts,  it 
came  about  that  the  girls  were  called  after  their  uncles,  and 
that  the  third  girl,  had  there  been  such  an  unlucky  little 
individual,  following  in  the  track  of  her  sisters,  would  have 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NOKLAW.  63 

turned  out  Jemima  or  Robina,  according  as  the  balance  rose 
in  favor  of  her  father's  brother  or  her  mother's.  Fortu 
nately,  Joanna  was  the  last  fruit  of  the  household  tree,  .which 
had  blossomed  sparely.  She  was  only  fifteen,  tall,  strong, 
red  haired,  and  full  of  vigor — the  greatest  contrast  imagin 
able  to  her  pretty  pale  sister,  whom  Joanna  devoutly  be 
lieved  in  as  a  beauty,  but  secretly  did  somewhat  grieve  over 
as  a  fool.  The  younger  sister  was  not  in  the  least  pretty,  and 
knew  it,  but  she  was  clever,  and  Joanna  knew  that  also, 
which  made  an  agreeable  counterpoise.  She  was  extremely 
honest,  downright  and  straightforward,  speaking  the  truth 
with  less  elegance  than  force,  but  speaking  it  always ;  and 
on  the  whole  was  a  good  girl,  though  not  always  a  very 
pleasant  one.  At  this  present  moment  she  was  flushed, 
breathless,  and  eager,  having  run  all  the  way  from  the  house 
with  something  to  tell.  But  Patricia's  "  nerves"  could  not 
bear  the  sudden  announcement,  though  that  delicate  young 
lady  loved  a  piece  of  news  fully  as  well  as  her  sister.  Jo 
anna,  therefore,  stood  still,  making  hasty  and  awkward 
apologies,  and  eager  to  do  something  to  amend  her  mistake, 
while  her  delicate  companion  recovered  breath.  There  was 
something  more  than  nerves  in  the  young  lady's  discompo 
sure.  She  was  feeble  by  nature,  the  invalid  of  the  family, 
which  Joanna,  knowing  no  sympathetic  ailment  in  her  own 
vigorous  person,  sometimes  had  the  ill  luck  to  forget. 

"And  my  poor  book!"  said  poor  Patricia,  picking  up  the 
unfortunate  volume,  which  lay  fluttering  with  open  leaves  on 
the  very  edge  of  that  tiny  current  trickling  over  the  brown 
path,  which,  save  that  it  moved  and  caught  an  occasional 
sparkle  of  light,  you  could  not  have  distinguished  to  be  a 
burn.  "  Oh,  Joanna,  you  are  so  thoughtless  !  what  was  all 
this  haste  about  ?" 

"  Oh,  such  a  story !"  cried  Joanna,  eagerly.  "  It's  easy 
to  speak  about  nerves — but  when  I  heard  it  I  could  have 
run  to  papa  and  given  him  a  good  shake — I  could  !  and  he 
deserved  it !  for  they  say  it  was  all  his  blame." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  what  it  was,"  said  Patricia,  with  an 
exasperating  and  intolerable  meekness,  which  usually  quite 
overpowered  the  patience  of  her  sister. 

But  Joanna  was  too  much  interested  in  the  present  in 
stance. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Livingstone  of  Norlaw,"  she  said,  sinking 


64  THE    LAIED     OF     NOELAW. 

her  voice;  "he's  dead,  and  his  funeral  was  stopped  because 
he  was  in  debt,  and  it  was  papa  that  did  it — and  the  three 
boys  got  up  at  midnight  and  carried  him  on  their  shoulders, 
with  torches  in  their  hands,  to  Dryburgh,  and  buried  him 
there.  Sinclair  says  it's  true,  every  word  ;  and  I  don't  know 
whether  Huntley  did  not  swim  over  Tweed  to  get  the  boat. 
Oh,  Patricia !  I  feel  as  if  I  could  both  greet  and  cry  hurra, 
if  I  were  to  see  them  ;  and  as  for  papa,  he  deserves — I  don't 
know  what  he  does  not  deserve  !" 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  like  a  lady,  Joanna,"  said  her 
sister,  without  taking  any  notice  of  this  unfilial  sentiment ; 
"  greet !  you  could  just  as  well  say  cry,  or  weep,  for  that 
matter— and  it's  only  common  people  that  say  Tweed,  as  if 
they  meant  a  person  instead  of  a  river  ;  why  don't  you  say 
the  Tweed,  as  people  of  education  say  ?" 

"  He's  the  truest  person  I  know,"  cried  Joanna.  "  Tweed 
and  Tyne  !  you  may  say  that  they'e  just  streams  of  water, 
if  you  like,  but  they're  more  to  me ;  but  the  question  is 

rpa — I  knew  he  was  ill  enough  and  hard-hearted,  but 
never,  never  thought  he  could  have  been  so  bad  as 
that — and  I  mean  to  go  this  very  moment  and  ask  him  how 
it  was." 

"  I  suppose  papa  knows  better  than  we  do,"  said  Patricia, 
with  a  slight  sigh  ;  "  but  I  wish  he  would  not  do  things  that 
make  people  talk.  It  is  very  annoying.  I  dare  say  every 
body  will  know  about  this  soon,  if  it's  true.  If  it  was  all 
himself  it  would  not  so  much  matter,  and  you  never  go  out 
anywhere,  Joanna,  so  you  don't  feel  it — but  is  very  unpleas 
ant  to  mamma  and  me." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  either  mamma  or  you ;  I  was 
thinking  of  the  Livingstones,"  cried  Joanna,  with  a  flush  of 
shame  on  her  cheeks  ;  "  and  I  mean  to  go  in  this  very  instant, 
and  ask  him  what  it  means." 

So  saying,  the  impetuous  girl  rushed  up  the  path,  slowly 
followed  by  Patricia.  It  was  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of 
woodland  on  the  whole  course  of  Tyne.  Mosses  and  wild 
flowers,  and  the  daintiest  ferns  known  to  Scotland,  peeped 
out  of  every  hollow — and  overhead  and  around,  stretching 
down  half  way  across  the  river,  and  thrusting  out,  with 
Nature's  rare  faculty  of  composition,  their  most  graceful 
curves  of  foliage  against  the  sky,  were  trees,  not  too  great 
or  ancient  to  overshadow  the  younger  growth  ;  trees  of  all 


THE    LAIKD     OP    NOEL  AW.  65 

descriptions,  birches  and  beeches  and  willows,  the  white- 
limbed  ash,  with  its  green  bunches  of  fruit,  and  the  tender 
lime,  with  its  honey  blossoms.  You  could  have  almost 
counted  every  separate  flash  of  sunshine  which  burned 
through  the  leaves,  misty  with  motes  and  dazzling  bright 
with  that  limitation  ;  and  yet  the  shadow  overhead  trembled 
and  fluctuated  with  such  a  constant  interchange,  that  the 
spot  which  was  in  shade  one  moment  was  in  the  brightest 
light  the  very  next.  The  light  gleamed  in  Joanna's  red 
hair,  as  she  plunged  along  in  her  impetuous  way  towards 
the  house,  and  fell  in  touches  here  and  there  upon  the  grace 
ful  little  figure  of  her  sister,  in  her  close  cottage  bonnet 
and  muslin  gown,  as  Patricia  came  softly  over  the  same 
road,  book  in  hand.  But  we  are  bound  to  confess  that 
neither  of  the  two,  perfectly  accustomed  and  familiar  as 
they  were,  found  a  moment's  leisure  among  their  other 
thoughts  to  pause  upon  this  scene ;  they  went  towards  the 
house,  the  one  after  the  other — Patricia  with  a  due  regard 
to  decorum  as  well  as  to  her  nerves  and  feebleness  of  frame 
— Joanna  totally  without  regard  for  either  the  one  or  the 
other ;  and  both  occupied,  to  the  entire  neglect  of  every 
thing  else,  with  thoughts  of  their  own. 

The  house  of  Melmar  was  placed  upon  a  level  platform 
of  land,  of  a  considerably  lower  altitude  than  this  brae. 
Pausing  to  look  at  it,  as  neither  Joanna  nor  Patricia  did,  on 
the  rustic  bridge  which  crossed  the  Tyne,  and  led  from  this 
woodland  path  into  the  smooth  lawn  and  properly  arranged 
trees  of  "the  private  grounds,"  Melmar  appeared  only  a 
large  square  house,  pretentious,  yet  homely,  built  entirely  for 
living  in,  and  not  for  looking  at.  If  Nature,  with  her  trees, 
and  grass,  and  bits  of  garden  land,  softening  the  angles  and 
filling  in  the  gaps,  had  done  her  best  to  make  it  seemly,  the 
house  was  completely  innocent  of  aiding  in  any  such  attempt. 
Yet,  by  sheer  dint  of  persistence,  having  stood  there  for  at 
least  a  hundred  years,  long  enough  to  have  patches  of 
lichen  here  and  there  upon  its  walls,  Melmar  had  gained 
that  look  of  steadiness  and  security,  and  of  belonging  to  the 
soil,  which  harmonizes  even  an  ugly  feature  in  a  landscape. 
The  door,  which  was  sheltered  by  a  little  portico,  with  four 
tall  pillars,  in  reality  stone,  but  looking  considerably  like 
plaster,  opened  from  without  after  the  innocent  fashion  of 
the  country.  Running  across  the  lawn,  Joanna  opened  the 


66  THE    LA.IRD     OF    NORLA.W. 

door  and  plunged  in,  without  further  ado,  into  her  father's 
study,  which  was  at  the  end  of  a  long  passage  looking  out 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  house.  He  was  not  there — so 
the  girl  came  rushing  back  again  to  the  drawing-room,  the 
door  of  which  stood  open,  and  once  more  encountering  her 
sister  there,  did  her  best  to  disturb  the  delicate  nerves  a 
second  time,  and  throw  Patricia  out  of  breath. 

This  papa,  whom  Joanna  had  no  hesitation  about  beard 
ing  in  his  own  den,  could  not  surely  be  such  an  ogre  after 
all.  He  was  not  an  ogre.  You  could  not  have  supposed,  to 
look  at  him,  that  any  exaltation  of  enmity,  any  heroic  sen 
timent  of  revenge,  could  lodge  within  the  breast  of  Mr. 
liuntley,  of  Melmar.  He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  high,  nar 
row  head,  and  reddish  grizzled  hair.  A  man  with  plenty  of 
forehead,  making  up  in  height  for  its  want  of  breadth.  He 
was  rather  jovial  than  otherwise  in  his  manner,  and  carried 
about  with  him  a  little  atmosphere  of  his  own,  a  whiff  of 
two  distinct  odors,  not  unusual  attendants  of  elderly  Scots 
men,  twenty  years  ago,  reminiscences  of  toddy  and  rappee. 
He  looked  around  with  a  smile  at  the  vehement  entrance  of 
Joanna.  He  permitted  all  kinds  of  rudenesses  on  the  part 
of  this  girl,  and  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  them.  He  was 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  an  exacting  or  punctilious  father ; 
but  not  all  his  indulgence,  nor  the  practical  jokes,  banter, 
and  teasing,  which  he  administered  to  all  children,  his  own, 
among  the  rest,  when  they  were  young  enough — had  secured 
him  either  fondness  or  respect  at  their  hands.  They  got  on 
very  well  on  the  whole.  Patricia  pouted  at  him,  and  Joanna 
took  him  to  task  roundly  when  they  differed  in  opinion — 
but  the  affection  they  gave  him  was  an  affection  of  habit, 
and  nothing  more. 

"  I've  come  to  speak  to  you,  papa,"  cried  Joanna.  "  I've 
just  been  hearing  the  whole  story,  every  word — and  oh,  I 
think  shame  of  you ! — it's  a  disgrace,  it's  a  sin — I  wonder 
you  dare  look  any  of  us  in  the  face  again !" 

"  Eh  ?  what's  all  this  ?"  said  Melmar ;  "Joan  in  one  of  her 
tantrums  already  ?  Three  times  in  a  day !  that's  scarcely 
canny — I'll  have  to  speak  to  your  aunt  Jean." 

"  Oh,  papa !"  cried  Joanna,  indignantly,  "  it's  no  fun — 
who  do  you  think  would  carry  you  to  Dryburgh  if  some 
body  stopped  your  funeral  ?  not  one !  You  would  have  to 
stay  here  in  your  coffin  and  never  be  buried — and  I  wouldna 


THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW.  67 

be  sorry !  You  would  deserve  it,  and  nothing  better — oh, 
I  think  shame  on  you !" 

"What?  in  my  coffin  ?  that's  a  long  look  beforehand," 
said  Melmar.  "  You  may  have  time  to  think  shame  of  me 
often  enough  before  that  time,  Joan ;  but  let's  hear  what's 
all  this  about  Dryburgh  and  a  funeral — who's  been  here?" 

"  Sinclair  was  here,"  cried  Joanna,  "  and  he  heard  it  all 
at  Kirkbride — every  word — and  he  .says  you  had  better  not 
be  seen  there,  after  all  you've  done  at  Norlaw." 

('  I  am  sure,  papa,  it's  very  hard,"  said  Patricia.  "  You 
set  everybody  talking,  and  then  people  look  strange  at  us. 
Mamma  knows  they  do ;  and  I  could  cry  when  I  think  that 
we're  going  out  to-morrow,  and  it  would  have  been  such  a 
nice  party.  But  now  everybody  knows  about  this,  and  no 
body  will  speak  to  us — it's  too  bad  of  you,  papa." 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Huntley,  from  her 
easy  chair. 

"  Eh,  fat's  this  ?"  said  Aunt  Jean,  wheeling  round  upon 
hers. 

A  popular  commotion  was  rising ;  Melmar  saw  the  pre 
monitory  tokens,  and  made  his  escape  accordingly. 

"  Joan,"  he  said,  pulling  her  ear  as  he  passed  her,  "  you're 
an  impudent  monkey ;  but  you  may  spare  your  wrath  about 
Norlaw — I  knew  as  little  as  you  did  that  the  man  was  dead 
— however,  he  is  dead,  and  I  don't  break  my  heart ;  but 
you  can  tell  Sinclair  I'll  tell  him  a  word  of  my  mind  the 
next  time  I'm  near  Kirkbride." 

"  Sinclair  doesna  care !"  said  Joanna ;  but  Melmar  pulled 
a  thick  curl  of  her  red  hair,  and  betook  himself  to  his 
study,  leaving  the  rising  gust  of  questions  to  wear  itself 
out  as  it  might. 


CHAPTER   XIY. 

THE  drawing-room  of  Melmar  was  a  large  room  tolerably 
well  furnished.  Three  long  windows  on  one  side  of  the 
apartment  looked  out  upon  the  lawn  before  the  house,  care 
fully  avoiding  the  view  "  up  Tyne,"  which  a  little  manage- 


68  THE    LAIRD    OP    NOKLAW. 

ment  might  have  made  visible.  The  fire-place  was  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  room,  sparkling  coldly  with  polished  steel 
and  brass,  and  decorated  with  a  very  elaborate  construction 
of  cut  paper.  The  chairs  were  all  covered  with  chintz  in  a 
large-flowered  pattern,  red  and  green — chintz  which  did  not 
fit  on  well,  and  looked  creasy  and  disorderly.  A  large 
crumb-cloth,  spread  over  the  bright-colored  carpet,  had  the 
same  disadvantage ;  one  corner  of  it  was  constantly  loose, 
folding  up  under  the  chairs  and  tripping  unwary  passengers. 
There  was  a  round  rose-wood  tal3le,  sparely  covered  with 
books  and  ornaments,  and  another  oblong  one  with  a  cover 
on  it,  which  was  meant  for  use. 

By  this  last  sat  Mrs.  Huntley,  with  some  knitting  in  her 
lap,  reclining  in  a  cushioned  chair,  with  her  feet  upon  a 
high  footstool.  She  was  pale,  with  faint  pink  cheeks, 
and  small,  delicate  features,  a  woman  who  had,  to  use  her 
own  expression,  "  enjoyed  very  bad  health"  all  her  life. 
She  had  very  little  character,  not  much  animation,  nothing 
very  good  nor  very  bad  about  her.  It  would  scarcely  have 
been  true  even  to  say  that  she  loved  her  children ;  she  was 
fond  of  them — particularly  of  Patricia — gave  them  a  great 
many  caresses  and  sweetmeats  while  they  were  young 
enough,  and  afterwards  let  them  have  their  own  will  with 
out  restraint ;  but  there  did  not  seem  enough  of  active  life 
in  her  to  deserve  the  title  of  any  active  sentiment.  She 
was  deeply  learned  in  physic  and  invalid  dietry,  and  liked 
to  be  petted  and  attended,  to  come  down  stairs  at  twelve 
o'clock,  to  lie  on  the  sofa,  to  be  led  out  for  a  little  walk, 
carefully  adapted  to  her  weakness,  and  to  receive  all  the 
little  attentions  proper  to  an  invalid.  Her  exclusive  pre 
tensions  in  this  respect  had,  it  is  true,  been  rather  infringed 
upon  of  late  years  by  Patricia,  who  sometimes  threatened 
.to  be  a  more  serious  invalid  than  her  mother,  and  who 
certainly  assumed  the  character  with  almost  equal  satisfac 
tion.  However,  Patricia  was  pretty  well  at  the  present 
moment,  and  Mrs.  Huntley,  supported  by  her  maid,  had 
only  about  half  an  hour  ago  come  down  stairs.  She  had  a 
glass  of  toast-and-water  on  the  table  beside  her,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  an  orange  cut  into  quarters  upon  a  china  plate,  a 
newspaper  within  reach  of  her  hand,  and  her  knitting  in  her 
lap.  We  beg  Mrs.  Iluntley's  pardon,  it  was  not  knitting, 
but  netting — her  industry  consisted  in  making  strange, 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  .  09 

shapeless  caps,  bags,  and  window-curtains,  which  became 
excessively  yellow  after  they  were  washed,  and  were  of  no 
use  to  any  creature ;  for  the  refined  art  of  crotchet  was  not 
then  invented,  nor  had  fancy-work  reached  that  perfection 
which  belongs  to  it  now. 

In  an  arm-chair  by  one  of  the  windows  sat  a  very  different 
person — an  old  woman,  black-eyed,  white-haired,  wearing 
an  old-fashioned  black  dress,  with  a  snowy  white  muslin 
handkerchief  pinned  down  to  her  waist  in  front  and  be 
hind — a  large  muslin  apron  of  the  same  spotless  complexion, 
a  cap  of  clear  cambric  trimmed  with  rich  old-fashioned  lace, 
and  bound  round  with  a  broad  black  ribbon,  which  was 
tied  in  a  bow  on  the  top  of  her  head.  This  was  a  relative 
of  Mrs.  Huntley,  known  as  Aunt  Jean  in  the  house  of 
Melmar.  She  was  the  last  survivor  of  her  family,  and  had 
a  little  annuity,  just  enough  to  keep  her  muslin  kerchiefs 
and  aprons  and  old-fashioned  caps  from  wearing  out.  She 
was  quite  kindly  used  in  this  house  where  nobody  paid  any 
particular  regard  to  her,  but  where  long  ago  it  had  seemed 
very  good  fun  to  Melmar  himself  to  get  up  a  little  delusion 
on  the  score  of  Aunt  Jean's  wealth,  which,  according  to  the 
inventor  of  it,  was  to  be  bequeathed  to  his  daughter  Joanna. 
This  was  a  favorite  joke  of  the  head  of  the  house ;  he  was 
never  tired  of  referring  to  Aunt  Jean's  fortune,  or  threaten 
ing  Joanna  with  the  chance  of  forfeiting  it,  which  delicate 
and  exquisite  piece  of  fun  was  always  followed  by  a  loud 
laugh,  equally  delicate  and  characteristic.  Aunt  Jean,  how 
ever,  fortunately,  was  deaf,  and  never  quite  understood  the 
wit  of  her  nephew-in-law ;  she  stuck  quietly  to  her  corner, 
made  rather  a  pet  of  Joanna,  persisted  in  horrifying  Patricia 
by  her  dress  and  her  dialect,  which  breathed  somewhat 
strongly  of  Aberdeenshire,  and  by  dint  of  keeping  "  thretty 
pennies,"  as  she  said,  in  the  corner  of  her  old-fashioned 
leather  purse — pennies  wrhich  were  like  the  oil  in  the 
widow's  cruse,  often  spent,  yet  always  existing — and  in  her 
drawers  in  her  own  room  an  unfailing  store  of  lace,  and 
muslins,  and  ribbons,  old  dresses,  quaint  examples  of  forgot 
ten  fashion,  and  pieces  of  rich  stuff,  such  as  girls  love  to 
turn  over  and  speculate  on  possible  uses  for — kept  up  an 
extensive  popularity.  Aunt  Jean  was  not  in  the  very 
slightest  degree  an  invalid — the  tap  of  her  little  foot,  ^  which 
wore  high-heeled  shoes,  was  almost  the  smartest  in  the 


70  •  THE     LAIRD     OF     NOBLAW. 

house.  She  sat  in  winter  by  the  fire,  in  summer  by  one  of 
the  windows,  knitting  endless  pairs  of  stockings,  mits,  and 
those  shapeless  little  gloves,  with  a  separate  stall  for  the 
thumb,  and  one  little  bag  for  all  the  fingers,  in  which  the 
hapless  hands  of  babies  are  wont  to  be  imprisoned.  It  was 
from  an  occupation  of  this  kind  that  Aunt  Jean  turned, 
when  the  din  of  Joanna's  accusation  penetrated  faintly  into 
her  ears. 

"Eh,  fat's  that?"  said  Aunt  Jean;  it  was  something 
about  a  debt  and  a  funeral,  two  things  which  were  not 
particularly  likely  to  interest  Joanna.  Something  remark 
ably  out  of  the  usual  course  must  have  happened,  and 
the  old  lady  had  all  the  likings  of  an  old  woman  in  the 
country.  Gossip  was  sweet  to  her  soul. 

"Oh,  mamma,  so  vexatious!"  cried  Patricia,  in  a  voice 
which  could  not  by  any  possibility  reach  the  ears  of  Aunt 
Jean;  "papa  has  been  doing  something  to  Mr.  Livingstone, 
of  Norlaw — he's  dead,  and  there's  been  something  done 
that  looks  cruel — oh !  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  exactly  what 
it  is — Joanna  knows ; — but  only  think  how  the  people  will 
look  at  us  to-morrow  night." 

"  Perhaps  I  may  not  be  able  to  go,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Huntley,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Not  able  to  go  ?  after  promising  so  long!  mamma,  that 
is  cruel!"  cried  Patricia;  "but  nobody  cares  for  me.  I 
never  have  what  other  people  have.  I  am  to  be  shut  up 
in  this  miserable  prison  of  a  place  all  my  life — not  able 
to  go  !  Oh,  mamma  !  but  you'll  all  be  sorry  when  there's 
no  poor  Patricia  to  be  shut  up  and  made  a  victim  of  any 
more !" 

"I  do  think  you're  very  unreasonable,  Patricia,"  said 
Mrs.  Huntley ;  "I've  gone  out  three  times  this  last  month 
to  please  you — a  great  sacrifice  for  a  person  in  my  weak 
health — and  Dr.  Tait  does  not  think  late  hours  proper  for 
you ;  besides,  if  there  is  any  thing  disagreeable  about  your 
papa,  as  you  say,  I  really  don't  think  my  nerves  could  stand 
it." 

"  Fat's  all  this  about  ?"  said  Aunt  Jean ;  "  you  ken  just  as 
well  as  me  that  I  canna  hear  a  word  of  fat  you're  saying. 
Joan,  my  bairn,  come  you  here — fa's  dun  wrang?  Fat's 
happened  ?  Eh !  there's  Patricia  ta'en  to  the  tears — fat's 
wrang  ?" 


* 


THE     LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  71 

Nothing  loth,  Joanna  rushed  forward,  and  shouted  her 
story  into  the  old  woman's  ears.  It  was  received  with 
great  curiosity  and  interest  by  the  new  hearers.  Aunt 
Jean  lifted  up  her  hands  in  dismay,  shook  her  head,  made 
all  the  telegraphic  signs  with  eye  and  mouth  which  are 
common  to  people  restrained  from  full  communication  with 
their  companions.  Mrs.  Huntley,  too,  was  roused. 

"It's  like  a  scene  in  a  novel,"  she  said,  with  some  ani 
mation  ;  "  but  after  all,  Mr.  Livingstone  should  not  have 
been  in  debt  to  papa,  you  know.  What  with  Oswald 
abroad,  and  you  two  at  home,  you  can  tell  Aunt  Jean  we 
need  all  our  money,  Joanna;  and  if  people  die  when  they're 
in  debt,  what  can  they  expect  ?  I  don't  see,  really,  in  my 
poor  health,  that  I'm  called  upon  to  interfere." 

"Fat's  this  I  hear?"  said  Aunt  Jean;  "Livingstone  o' 
orlaw?  Na,  Jeanie,  if  that's  true,  your  good  man's 
been  sair  left  to  himself.  Eh,  woman !  Livingstone !  fat's 
a'body's  thinking  of?  I  would  sooner  have  cut  off  my 
little  finger  if  I  had  been  Me'mar ;  that  man !" 

"  Oh,  what  about  him,  Aunt  Jean  ?"  cried  Joanna. 

"  Ay,  bairn,  but  I  maun  think,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  I'm  no'  so  clear  it's  my  duty  to  tell  you.  Your  father 
kens  his  ain  concerns,  and  so  does  your  mother,  in  a  mea 
sure,  and  so  do  I  myself.  I  canna  tell  onybody  mair  than 
my  ain  secret,  Joan.  Hout  ay !  I'll  tell  you,  fun  I  was  a 
young  lass,  fat  happened  to  me." 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  Norlaw,"  cried  Joanna,  screaming 
into  the  old  woman's  ear. 

"  Aunt  Jean  !"  cried  Mrs.  Huntley,  making  a  sudden  step 
out  of  her  chair.  "  If  you  do,  Me'mar  will  kill  me — oh ! 
hold  your  tongues,  children  !  Do  you  think  I  can  bear  one 
of  papa's  passions — a  person  in  my  poor  health  ?  Aunt 
Jean,  if  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again !" 

Aunt  Jean  contemplated  her  niece,  with  her  twinkling 
black  eyes,  making  a  moue  of  vivid  contempt  as  she  nodded 
her  head  impatiently. 

"  Fat  for  can  ye  no  hold  your  peace  for  a  fool-wife  ?"  said 
Aunt  Jean;  "did  ye  think  I  had  as  little  wit  as  you? 
What  about  Norlaw?  You  see  the  laird  here  and  him 
were  aye  ill  friends.  Hout  ay !  mony  a  ane's  ill  friends 
with  Me'mar.  I  mind  the  bairns  just  fun  you  were  born, 
Joan.  Twa  toddling  wee  anes,  and  ane  in  the  cradle.  Pity 


72  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

me  !  I  mind  it  because  I  was  losing  my  hearing,  and  turn 
ing  a  cankered  auld  wife ;  and  it  was  them  that  took  and 
buried  their  father  ?  Honest  lads  !  I  would  like  to  do  them 
a  good  turn." 

"But  I  know  there's  something  more  about  Norlaw," 
cried  Joanna,  "  and  I'll  say  you're  a  cankered  auld  wife  till 
you  tell  me — I  will !  and  you  would  have  told  me  before 
now  but  for  mamma.  Do  you  hear,  Aunt  Jean  ?" 

"  Hout  ay,  I  hear,"  said  the  old  woman,  who  could  manage 
her  deafness  like  most  people  who  possess  that  defect — 
(where  it  is  not  extreme,  a  little  deafness  is  in  its  way  quite 
a  possession)  "  but  I  maun  take  time  to  think  fat  it  was  I 
promised  to  tell  you.  Something  that  happened  when  I 
was  a  young  lass.  Just  that,  Joan — I  was  staying  at  my 
married  sister's,  that  was  your  grandmother,  and  Jeanie, 
there,  your  mamaw,  was  a  bit  little  bairn — she  was  aye  a 
sma'  thing  of  her  years,  taking  physic  for  a  constancy. 
There  was  a  poor  gentleman  there,  ane  of  the  Gordons,  as 
good  blood  in  his  veins  as  ony  man  in  the  kingdom,  and 
better  than  the  king's  ain,  that  was  only  a  German  lairdie — 
but  ye  see  this  lad  was  poor,  and  fat  should  save  him  but  he 
got  into  debt,  and  fat  should  help  him  but  he  died.  So  the 
sheriff's  officers  came  and  stopped  the  funeral ;  and  the  lads 
rose,  a'  the  friends  that  were  at  it,  and  all  the  men  on  the 
ground,  and  fat  phould  ail  them  to  crack  the  officers'  crowns, 
and  lay  them  up  in  a  chamber ;  but  I've  heard  say  it  was  a 
sair  sicht  to  see  the  hearse  rattling  away  at  a  trot,  and  a' 
the  black  coaches  afterhand,  as  if  it  was  a  bridal — oh  fie  ! 
— nothing  else  was  in  everybody's  mouth  on  our  side  of  the 
water,  a'  the  mair  because  the  Gordon  lad  that  died  was  of 
the  English  chapel,  and  behoved  to  have  a  service  o'er  his 
gnive,  and  the  English  minister  was  faint-hearted  and  feared. 
It  wasna  done  at  nicht,  but  in  broad  daylicht,  and  by  the 
strong  hand — and  that  happened — I  wouldria  say  but  it  was 
forty  year  ago  ;  for  I  was  a  young  lass  and  your  mamaw 
there  a  little  bairn." 

"I  daresay,  mamma,"  said  Patricia,  who  had  dried  her 
tears,  "  that  people  don't  know  of  it  yet ;  and  at  the  worst 
it  was  all  papa's  i'ault — I  don't  think  we  should  be  afraid  to 
go — it  wasn't  our  blame,  I'm  sure." 

"  If  I  should  be  able,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Huntley,  with 
her  languid  sigh — whereupon  Patricia  exerted  herself  to 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW.  73 

arrange  her  mother's  pillow,  and  render  her  sundry  little 
attentions  which  pleased  her. 

Poor  little  Patricia  loved  "  society ;"  she  wanted  to  shine 
and  to  be  admired  "  like  other  girls" — even  the  dull  dinner 
parties  of  the  surrounding  lairds  excited  the  fragile  little 
soul,  who  knew  no  better,  and  she  spent  the  rest  of  the  day, 
oblivious  of  her  former  terrors  concerning  public  opinion, 
in  coaxing  Mrs.  Huntley  into  betterness ;  while  Joanna,  for 
her  part,  persecuted  Aunt  Jean  with  an  unavailing  but 
violent  pertinacity,  vainly  hoping  to  gain  some  insight  into 
a  family  secret.  Patricia  was  successful  in  her  endeavors ; 
but  there  never  was  a  more  signal  failure  than  that  attack 
upon  Aunt  Jean. 


GHAPTEE   XY. 

"  BLESS  me  callants  !  what  are  ye  doing  here  ?"  said  Mar- 
get,  looking  in  at  the  door  of  the  mid-chamber,  where 
Huntley  and  Patrick  Livingstone  were  together. 

It  was  a  small  apartment,  originally  intended  for  a 
dressing-room,  and  communicating  by  a  door  locked  and 
barricaded  on  both  sides  with  the  east  room,  which  was  the 
guest-chamber  of  the  house.  Almost  its  sole  piece  of  furni 
ture  was  a  large  old-fashioned  mahogany  desk,  standing 
upon  a  heavy  frame  of  four  tall  legs,  and  filling  half  the 
space ;  it  was  not  like  the  bureau  of  romance,  with  that 
secret  drawer  where  some  important  document  is  always 
being  discovered.  The  heavy  lid  was  held  open  by  Huntley's 
head,  as  he  carried  on  his  investigations.  There  were 
drawers  enough,  but  they  were  all  made  by  the  hand  of  the 
ioiner  of  Kirkbride,  who  knew  nothing  of  secret  contriv 
ances — and  these,  as  well  as  all  the  remaining  space  of  the 
desk,  were  filled  with  the  gatherings  of  Norlaw's  life,  trifles 
which  some  circumstance  or  other  made  important  to  him 
at  the  moment  they  were  placed  there,  but  which  were  now 
pathetic  in  their  perfect  insignificance  and  uselessness, 
closely  connected  as  they  were  with  the  dead  man's  memory. 
Old  letters,  old  receipts,  old  curiosities,  a  few  coins  and 
seals,  and  trifling  memorials,  and  a  heap  of  papers  quite  un- 


74  THE    LAIKD     OP    NOKLAW. 

intelligible  and  worthless,  made  up  the  store.  In  one 
drawer,  however,  Huntley  had  found  what  he  wanted — the 
will — and  along  with  it,  carefully  wrapped  in  at  least  a  doz 
en  differ en t  folds  of  paper,  a  little  round  curl  of  golden  hair. 

They  were  looking  at  this  when  Marget,  whose  question 
had  not  been  answered,  entered  and  closed  the  door.  The 
lads  were  not  aware  of  her  presence  till  this  sound  startled 
them ;  when  they  heard  it,  Huntley  hurriedly  refolded  the 
covers  of  this  relic,  which  they  had  been  looking  at  with  a 
certain  awe.  Eye  of  stranger,  even  though  it  was  this  faith 
ful  old  friend  and  servant,  ought  not  to  pry  into  their  father's 
secret  treasure.  The  Mistress's  hair  was  of  the  darkest 
brown.  It  was  not  for  love  of  their  mother  that  Norlaw 
had  kept  so  carefully  this  childish  curl  of  gold. 

"  Laddies,"  said  Marget,  holding  the  door  close  behind 
her,  and  speaking  low  as  she  watched  with  a  jealous  eye  the 
covering  up  of  this  secret,  "  some  of  ye's  been  minding  the 
Mistress  of  auld  troubles.  I  said  to  myself  I  would  come 
and  give  you  a  good  hearing — the  haill  three — what's 
Mary  o'  Melmar  to  you  ?" 

"  Did  my  mother  tell  you  ?"  asked  Huntley,  with  amaze 
ment. 

"  Her,  laddies !  na,  it's  little  ye  ken !  her  name  the  like  o' 
that  to  the  like  o'  me  !  But  Cosmo  behoved  to  ask  about 
the  story — he  would  part  with  his  little  finger  to  hear  a  story, 
that  bairn — and  'deed  I  ken  fine  about  it.  What  for  could 
ye  no'  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  There  was  more  than  a  story  in  Huntley's  thoughts  and 
in  mine,"  said  Patrick,  shutting  up  the  desk  with  some  de 
cision  and  authoritativeness. 

"Hear  him!  my  certy  !  that's  setting  up  !"  cried  Marget ; 
"  I  ken  every  thing  about  it  for  a'  you're  so  grand.  And  I 
ken  the  paper  in  Huntley's  hand  is  the  will,  and  I  ken  I 
would  run  the  risk  o'  firing  the  haill  house,  but  I  would  have 
burnt  it,  afore  he  got  sight  o't,  if  it  had  been  me." 

"  Why  ?"  said  Huntley,  with  a  little  impatience.  It  was 
not  possible  that  the  youth  could  read  this  bequest  confer 
ring  Melmar,  failing  the  natural  heiress,  on  his  father  and 
himself,  without  a  thrill  of  many  emotions.  He  was  ambi 
tious,  like  every  young  man  ;  he  could  not  think  of  this  for 
tune,  which  seemed  almost  to  lie  within  his  reach,  without  a 
stirring  of  the  heart. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  75 

"  It  did  nothing  but  harm  to  your  father,  and  it  can  do 
nothing  but  mischief  to  you,"  said  Mai-get,  solemnly ; 
"  you're  young  and  strong,  and  fit  to  make  a  fortune.  But 
I  tell  you,  Huntley  Livingstone,  if  you  attempt  to  seek  this 
lass  over  the  world,  as  your  father  did,  you're  a  ruined 
man." 

"  Neither  Huntley  nor  me  believe  in  ruined  men,"  said 
Patie  ;  "  we'll  take  care  for  that — go  to  your  kye,  and  never 
mind." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Marget,"  said  Huntley,  who  was  more 
tender  of  the  faithful  retainer  of  the  house  ;  "  trust  us,  as 
Patie  says — besides,  if  she  should  never  be  found,  Mel  mar's 
mine." 

"  Eh,  whisht,  lad!  she'll  come  hame  with  half  a  dozen 
bairns  before  e'er  your  feet's  across  the  door,"  cried  Marget ; 
"  tell  me  to  trust  you,  that  are  only  callants,  and  dinna  ken  ! 
Trust  me,  the  twa  of  you !  Gang  and  spend  a'  the  best 
years  of  your  life,  if  you  like,  seeking  her,  or  witness  that 
she's  dead.  If  ye  find  her,  ye're  nane  the  better,  if  ye  din 
na  find  her,  ye're  aye  deluded  with  the  thought  of  a  fortune 
ye  canna  claim — and  if  ye  get  word  she's  dead,  there's  still 
Melmar  himself,  that  was  bred  a  writer  and  kens  a'  the  cheats 
of  them,  to  fight  the  battle  !  They  might  say  it  was  a  false 
will — they  might  say,  Guid  forgive  them !  that  Norlaw  had 
beguiled  the  auld  man.  There's  evil  in't  but  nae  guid  ; 
Huntley,  you're  your  father's  son,  you're  to  make  his  amends 
to  her.  Dinna  vex  the  Mistress's  life  with  Mary  of  Melmar 
ony  mair !" 

"  The  short  and  the  long  of  it  all,  Marget,"  said  Patrick, 
who  was  at  once  more  talkative  and  more  peremptory  than 
usual — "  is,  that  you  must  mind  your  own  business  and  we'll 
mind  ours.  Huntley's  not  a  knight  in  a  story-book,  seeking 
a  distressed  lady.  Huntley's  not  in  love  with  Mary  of  Mel 
mar  ;  but  if  she's  to  be  found  she  shall  be  found ;  and  if 
she's  dead  my  brother's  the  heir." 

"  No'  till  you're  done  wi'  a'  her  bairns,"  cried  Marget ; 
"  say  there's  nae  mair  than  three  of  them,  like  yoursels — and 
the  present  Me'mar's  been  firm  in  his  seat  this  thirteen  years. 
Weel,  weel,  I  daur  to  say  Patie's  right— it's  nae  business  o' 
mine ;  but  I'd  sooner  see  you  a'  working  for  your  bread,  if 
it  was  just  like  laboring  men,  and  I  warn  ye  baith,  the  day's 
coming  when  ye'll  think  upon  what  I  say !" 


76  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

Marget  disappeared,  solemnly  shaking  her  head  as  she 
said  these  last  words.  For  the  moment,  the  two  youths 
said  nothing  to  each  other.  The  desk  was  locked  softly,  the 
will  placed  in  an  old  pocket-book,  to  be  deposited  else 
where,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  young  men's  eyes 
met. 

"  She's  right,"  said  Patie,  with  sudden  emphasis  ;  "  if  you 
seek  her  yourself,  Huntley,  you'll  neither  get  Me'mar  nor 
fortune — it's  true." 

Huntley  paid  little  attention  to  his  brother.  He  stood 
looking  out  from  the  window,  where,  in  the  distance,  to  the 
north,  the  banks  of  Tyne  rose  high  among  the  woods  of 
Melmar — opposite  to  him,  fertile  fields,  rich  in  the  glow  of 
coming  harvest,  lay  the  wealthy  lands  of  his  father's  enemy 
— those  lands  which  perhaps  now,  if  he  but  knew  it,  were 
indisputably  his  own.  He  stood  fascinated,  looking  out, 
tracing  with  an  unconscious  eagerness  the  line  of  the  hori 
zon,  the  low  hills,  and  trees,  and  ripening  corn,  which,  as  far 
as  he  could  see  before  him,  were  still  part  of  the  same  in 
heritance.  He  was  not  a  dreamy  boy  like  Cosmo — he 
thought  little  of  his  father's  old  love,  or  of  the  triumph  of 
restoring  her  to  her  inheritance.  The  Mary  of  Norlaw's 
fancy  was  but  a  shadow  upon  the  future  of  his  own.  He 
thought,  with  a  glow  of  personal  ambition,  of  the  fair  stretch 
of  country  lying  before  him.  Generous,  high-spirited,  and 
incapable  of  meanness,  Huntley  still  had  the  impulse  of  con 
quest  strong  within  him.  He  could  not  but  think,  with  a 
rising  heart,  of  this  visible  fortune  which  lay  at  his  feet  and 
seemed  to  be  almost  within  his  grasp.  He  could  not  but 
think,  with  indignant  satisfaction,  of  unseating  the  false  heir 
whose  enmity  had  pursued  Noiiaw  to  the  very  grave.  All 
the  excitement  which  had  gathered  into  these  few  past 
weeks  still  throbbed  in  Iluntley's  heart  and  stirred  his  brain. 
He  could  not  moderate  the  pace  of  his  thoughts  or  subdue 
his  mind  at  anybody's  bidding.  If  it  should  be  hard  to  get 
justice  and  a  hearing  for  his  claims,  this  very  difficulty  in 
creased  the  attraction — for  it  was  his  claims  he  thought  of 
while  the  others  were  thinking  of  Mary  of  Melmar.  He 
was  not  selfish,  but  he  was  young,  and  had  an  ardent  mind 
and  a  strong  individual  character.  Mary  of  Melmar — a 
white  ghost,  unreal  and  invisible — faded  from  his  mind  en 
tirely.  He  thought,  instead,  of  the  man  who  had  arrested 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW.  77 

Norlaw's  funeral,  and  of  the  inheritance  of  which  he  was 
the  rightful  heir. 

With  all  these  fumes  in  his  brain  it  was  quite  impossible 
that  Huntley  could  listen  soberly  to  the  sober  counsels  of 
Patie,  or  to  the  warnings  of  the  old  servant.  They  begged 
him  not  to  think  of  a  search  for  Mary.  He  thought  ofno- 
thing  of  the  kind.  Mary  had  taken  no  position  of  romance 
in  the  young  man's  fancy.  The  romance  which  blossomed 
in  his  eyes  was  a  much  less  disinterested  one  than  that  which 
Cosmo  mused  upon  in  the  old  window  of  the  castle.  He 
thought  of  himself,  of  his  own  family,  of  all  the  possibilities 
and  powers  of  an  extensive  land-owner,  and  with  the  flush 
of  youthful  self-belief,  of  a  great  life.  He  had  stood  thus  at 
the  window  a  long  time  gazing  out,  and  paying  no  attention 
to  the  occasional  words  of  his  sensible  brother,  when  the 
sound  of  some  one  coming  roused  them  both.  It  was  the 
Mistress's  firm  footsteps  ascending  the  stair — they  both  left 
the  room  immediately,  agreed,  at  least,  in  one  thing,  to 
trouble  their  mother  no  more  with  recollections  disagreeable 
to  her.  Then  Patie  went  about  his  business,  somewhat  dis 
turbed  by  the  thought  that  Huntley  meant  to  throw  away 
a  portion  of  his  life  in  the  same  fruitless  folly  which  had  in 
jured  their  father;  while  Huntley  himselfj  remembering 
soemthing  that  had  to  be  done  at  Kirkbride,  set  off  along 
the  banks  of  Tyne  at  a  great  pace,  which  did  not,  however, 
overtake  the  swing  of  his  thoughts.  Marget,  coming  out  to 
her  kitchen  door  to  look  after  him,  held  up  her  hands  and 
exclaimed  to  herself,  "The  laddie's  carried  !"  as  she  watched 
his  rapid  progress — which  meaning,  as  it  did,  that  Huntley 
was  fairly  lifted  off  his  feet  and  possessed  by  a  rapid  and 
impetuous  fancy,  was  perfectly  correct — though  the  fancy 
itself  was  not  such  as  Marget  thought. 


CHAPTEK    XVI. 

THE  village  lay  bright  under  the  afternoon  sun  when 
Huntley  Livingstone  came  in  sight  of  it  that  day.  It  was 
perfectly  quiet,  as  was  its  wont— some  small  children  play- 


78  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

ing  at  the  open  doors,  the  elder  ones,  save  here  and  there 
an  elder  daughter  charged  with  the  heavy  responsibility  of 
a  baby,  being  for  the  most  part  safe  at  school.  At  the  door 
of  the  Norlaw  Arms  an  angler-visitor,  with  his  rod  over  his 
shoulder,,  a  single  figure  becalmed  in  the  sunshine,  stood 
lazily  gazing  about  him — and  in  the  shadow  of  the  project 
ing  gable  of  the  inn,  another  stranger  stood  holding  his 
horse  before  the  door  of  the  smithy,  from  whence  big  John 
Black,  the  smith,  was  about  to  issue  to  replace  a  lost  shoe. 
John  was  the  master  of  this  important  rural  establishment, 
and  was  a  big,  soft-hearted  giant,  full  of  the  good-humored 
obtuseness  which  so  often  accompanies  great  personal  size 
and  strength.  Inside,  in  the  fiery  obscurity  of  the  village 
Pandemonium,  toiled  a  giant  of  quite  a  different  order — a 
swarthy,  thick-set  little  Cyclops,  with  a  hump  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  one  eye.  This  was  John's  brother,  the  ruling  spirit 
of  mischief  in  Kirkbride,  whom  all  the  mothers  of  sons  held 
in  disgust  and  terror,  and  whom  Dr.  Logan  himself  could 
make  no  improvement  in.  Jacob,  or  Jaacob,  as  he  was 
popularly  called,  was  as  strong  as  he  was  ugly,  and,  it  was 
generally  understood,  as  wicked  as  both.  By  natural  con 
sequence,  his  rustic  neighbors  found  a  considerable  attrac 
tion  in  his  society,  and  liked  to  repeat  his  sayings,  which 
were  not  always  funny,  with  explosions  of  laughter.  Hunt- 
ley's  errand,  as  it  happened,  was  with  this  individual,  who 
was  somewhat  of  a  genius  in  his  way,  which  was  the  way  of 
agricultural  implements.  Jaacob  had  even  taken  out  what 
he  called  a  "  paatent"  for  a  new  harrow  of  his  own  inven 
tion,  and  was,  in  right  of  this,  the  authority,  on  all  such  mat 
ters,  of  the  country-side. 

"  Ye'll  be  carrying  on  the  farm  then  ?"  said  Jaacob.  "  A 
plow  needs  mair  than  a  new  coulter  to  drive  it  through  a 
furrow — it'll  be  new  work  to  you,  Mr.  Huntley,  to  gang 
atween  the  stilts  yourselV 

Huntley  had  descended  suddenly  out  of  the  hurry  of  his 
fancies  about  Melmar,  of  which  he  already  saw  himself  mas 
ter.  He  came  to  the  ground  with  rather  a  rude  shock  when 
he  heard  these  words,  and  found  himself  on  the  hard  earthen 
floor  of  the  smithy,  with  the  red  sparks  flying  into  the  dark 
ness  over  his  head,  and  Jaacob's  one  eye  twinkling  at  him 
in  the  fiery  light.  He  was  not  the  laird  of  Melmar  to  Jaa 
cob,  but  only  the  son  of  the  ruined  Norlaw. 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NORLAW.  79 

"  What  we  want  in  the  meantime  is  the  plow,"  said  Hunt- 
ley,  somewhat  sharply,  his  face  flushing  in  spite  of  himself; 
then  he  added,  after  a  pause,  all  the  humiliation  of  debt  and 
poverty  recurring  to  his  mind,  which  had  been  defended  for 
some  time  against  that  lesser  pain  by  the  excitement  of 
grief,  and  to-day  by  the  violent  flush  of  ambitious  hope. 
"  I  beliere  there  is  a  bill — but  if  you'll  send  it  up  to  the 
house  I'll  see  to  it  without  delay." 

Bowed  Jaacob  was  not  ungenerous  in  his  way,  but  he 
scorned  to  defend  himself  from  any  imputation  of  ungen- 
erosity.  He  did  not  hasten,  therefore,  as  might  have  been 
supposed,  to  say  that  the  aforesaid  bill  was  of  no  importance, 
and  could  wait.  On  the  contrary,  he  proceeded,  with  sar 
castic  dryness  in  his  tone : 

"  You'll  find  it  hard  work  to  get  in  your  craps.  How 
many  acres  have  ye  in  wheat  the  year,  Mr.  Huntley? 
You'll  no'  ken  ?  Houts,  man !  that's  an  ill  beginning  for  a 
lad  that  farms  his  ain  land." 

In  spite  of  himself,  tears  of  mortification  stole  into  Hunt- 
ley's  eyes.  He  turned  his  head  away  with  a  muttered  ex 
clamation. 

"I  don't  know  that  we've  half  an  acre  safe!"  cried 
Huntley,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart.  His  dream  was 
broken.  Me'mar,  who  was  their  chief  creditor — Me'mar, 
whom  he  had  not  yet  displaced — might  be  able  to  get  into 
his  hard  worldly  hands,  for  aught  Huntley  knew,  every  slope 
of  isTorlaw. 

"Aweel,  aweel,  lad,"  said  Jaacob,  striking  his  hammer 
fiercely  upon  the  glowing  iron,  "a'  the  better  for  you — 
you'll  be  your  ain  man — but  I  wouldna  cheat  myself  with 
fancies  if  I  was  you.  Make  up  your  mind  ae  way  or  an 
other,  but  dinna  come  here  and  speak  to  me  about  plows, 
as  if  that  was  what  your  mind  was  set  on.  I'm  no'  a  Sol 
omon,  but  if  you  mean  to  thrive,  never  delude  yoursalf  with 
a  sham." 

"  What's  a'  that  ?"  said  big  John,  as  his  customer  mount 
ed  the  reshod  horse,  and  trotted  off  in  leisurely  fashion  as 
became  the  day ;  "  has  Jaacob  won  to  his  books,  Mr.  Hunt- 
ley  ?  but  I  reckon  he  has  his  match  when  he  has  you." 

John,  however,  who  was  rather  proud  of  his  brother's  in 
tellectual  powers,  thought  no  such  thing— neither  did  the 
little  Cyclops  himself. 


80  THE    LAJED     OP    NOKLAW. 

"  Mind  your  ain  business,"  said  Jaacob,  briefly ;  "  what 
do  you  think  a  man  learns  out  of  books,  you  haverel  ?  Na, 
if  I'm  onything,  I'm  a  man  of  observation ;  and  take  my 
word,  lad,  there  never  was  a  man  trove  yet  till  he  saw  dis- 
tinck  where  he  was,  and  ordered  his  ways  according.  There's 
mysel' — do  you  think  I  could  ever  make  ony  progress,  ae 
way  or  another,  if  I  minded  what  a'  these  stupid  ideots 
say?" 

"  What  do  they  say  ?"  said  Huntley,  who  was  too  much 
occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  to  perceive  the  drift  of 
Jaacob's  personal  observations. 

"  Na,  d'ye  think  I'm  heeding  ?"  said  Jaacob ;  "  a  man 
can  rarely  be  more  enlightened  than  his  neighbors  without 
suffering  for't.  A'  this  auld  machinery  of  the  world  creaks 
like  an  auld  bellows.  There's  naething  but  delusions  on 
every  side  of  ye.  Ye  canna  be  clear  of  a  single  thing  that 
ye  havena  conquished  for  yoursel'." 

Huntley,  who  had  come  out  of  the  languid  August  after 
noon,  red  in  a  glow  of  sunshine  and  heat,  to  which  the  very 
idea  of  long  labor  was  alien,  which  accorded  well  enough  with 
his  own  ambitious  dreams  and  thoughts  of  sudden  fortune — 
could  not  help  feeling  somehow  as  if  Jnacob's  hammer,  be 
neath  the  strokes  of  which  the  sparks  Hew,  struck  himself 
as  well  as  the  iron.  Melmar  dissipated  into  thin  air,  in  the 
ruddy  atmosphere  of  the  smithy.  The  two  darkling  giants, 
large  and  small,  moving  about  in  the  fierce  glow  of  the  fire 
light,  the  puff  of  the  bellows,  plied  by  an  attendant  demon, 
and  the  ceaseless  clank  of  the  hammer,  all  combined  to  re 
call  to  reality  and  the  present,  the  thoughts  of  the  dreaming 
lad.  In  this  atmosphere  the  long  labors  of  the  Australian 
emigrant  looked  much  more  reasonable  and  likely  than  any 
sudden  enrichment ;  and  with  the  unconscious  self-reference 
of  his  age,  Huntley  took  no  pains  to  find  out  what  Jaacob 
meant,  but  immediately  applied  the  counsel  to  his  own 
case. 

"I  suppose  you're  very  right,  Jacob,"  said  Huntley; 
"  but  it's  hard  work  making  a  fortune ;  maybe  it's  safer  in 
the  end  than  what  comes  to  you  from  another  man's  labors ; 
but  still,  to  spend  a  life  in  gathering  money,  is  no  very 
great  thing  to  look  forward  to." 

"  Money  !"  said  Jaacob,  contemptuously.  "  Na,  lad ;  if 
that's  your  thought,  you're  no'  in  my  way.  Did  you  ever 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  81 

hear  of  a  rich  philosopher  ?  ne'er  a  ane  have  I  heard  tell  o', 
though  I  ken  the  maist  of  that  fraternity.  Money!  na!  it's 
ideas,  and  no  that  sordid  trash,  that  tempts  me." 

"And  the  rnair  fuil  you!"  said  big  John,  half  in  chagrin, 
half  in  admiration.  "You  might  have  made  your  fortune 
twenty  times  over,  if  it  hadna  been  for  your  philosophy." 

"Whew!"  whistled  bowed  Jaacob,  with  magnificent  dis 
dain  ;  "  what's  a'  the  siller  in  the  world  and  a'  its  delichts — 
grand  houses,  grand  leddies,  and  a'  the  rest  of  thae  vanities 
— to  the  purshuit  of  truth  ?  That's  what  I'm  saying, 
callant — take  every  thing  on  trust  because  you've  heard  sae 
a'  your  days,  and  your  faither  believed  it  before  ye,  gin  ye 
please ;  but  as  for  me,  I'm  no'  the  man  for  sham — I  set  my 
fit,  if  a'  the  world  should  come  against  me,  on  ideas  I've 
won  and  battled  for  mysel'." 

"When  they're  as  reasonable  as  the  harrow,  I've  nao 
objection,"  said  big  John;  "but  ilka  man  canna  write  his 
idies  in  wud  and  iron,  Mr.  Huntley.  The  like  o'  that  may 
be  a'  very  well  for  him,  but  it  doesna  answer  you  and  me. 
Eh,  man,  but  it's  warm !  If  it  wasna  that  philosophy's  an 
awfu'  drouthy  thing — and  the  wife  comes  down  on  me  like 
murder  when  I  get  a  gill — I  wouldna  say  but  it's  the  best 
kind  of  wark  for  this  weather.  Ye'll  be  goin'  up  bye  to  the 
manse,  Mr.  Huntley.  I  hear  they're  aye  very  well  pleased 
to  see  onybody  out  of  Norlaw ;  but  ye  maunna  say  ye've 
been  here,  for  Jaacob  and  the  minister,  they're  at  daggers 
drawn." 

"  Pish  !  nae  such  thing,"  cried  Jaacob,  with  complacency ; 
"  the  like  of  a  man  like  yon  shouldna  mell  with  a  man  like 
me.  It's  no'  a  fair  battle — I  aye  say  sae — I  can  tak  his 
measure  fast  enough,  but  he  can  nae  mair  tak  mine  than  he 
can  flee.  Eh,  lad!  have  you  ta'en  the  gate?  and  no'  a 
word  mair  about  the  plow  ?" 

"  I'll  take  your  advice,  Jacob,"  said  Huntley ;  "  the  plow 
can  stand  till  we  see  what  use  we'll  have  for  it ;  but  as  for 
going  between  the  stilts  myself,  if  I  do  you'll  see  me  draw 
as  fair  a  furrow  as  any  plowman  about  Kirkbride." 

"Hurray!"  said  Jaacob;  "the  lad  has  some  speerit  after 
a' ;  never  you  mind — we'll  send  down  somebody  to  see  to 
the  plow." 

With  this  assurance,  Huntley  left  the  smithy;  but  not 
till  Jaacob  had  begun  to  sing  in  the  most  singular  of 

4* 


82  THE    LATJBD     OF    NORLAW. 

cracked  and  elvish  voices,  beating  time  with  emphatic 
strokes  of  his  hammer,  "The  Flaxen-headed  Cowboy,"  a 
rustic  and  ancient  ditty,  much  in  favor  in  the  country-side. 
Whether  it  was  the  gestures  of  the  gnome  which  called 
them  forth,  or  a  ludicrous  application  of  the  song  to  him 
self,  Huntley  could  not  tell;  but  big  John  and  the  boy 
accompanied  the  chant  with  audible,  yet  restrained  explo 
sions  of  laughter.  Huntley  grew  very  red  in  spite  of 
himself,  as  he  hurried  along  to  the  little  bridge.  What  a 
change  from  the  fancy  which  possessed  him  as  he  came  up 
the  village  street  half  an  hour  ago!  He  could  not  have 
believed  that  his  hypothetical  inheritance  could  have 
vanished  so  utterly;  somehow  he  could  not  even  recall  that 
evanescent  splendor.  It  was  no  longer  the  heir  of  Melmar 
who  ascended  the  brae  of  Tyne,  through  the  trees  and 
scattered  cottages  towards  the  white-gabled  manse.  It  was 
the  same  Huntley  Livingstone  who  had  buried  his  father  at 
midnight,  who  had  set  his  face  against  the  evil  fortune 
which  seemed  ready  to  overwhelm  his  house,  and  who  had 
pledged  himself  to  win  in  a  new  country  a  new  and  stable 
fortune  for  the  race  of  Norlaw. 

But  the  young  man  was  by  no  means  contented  to  part  so 
lightly  with  his  magnificent  vision.  He  did  all  he  could  by 
dint  of  thinking  to  bring  it  back  to  his  mind ;  but  even 
when  he  paused  at  the  top  of  the  little  hill  and  surveyed 
once  more  the  fair  fields  of  Melmar,  he  could  not  recover 
the  enthusiasm  and  fervor  of  his  former  thoughts.  Bowed 
Jaacob,  with  the  odd  philosophy  which  perceived  other 
people's  mistakes,  but  could  not  see  its  own  ludicrous  pre 
tensions — big  John,  who  believed  in  his  brother — and  the 
ruddy  darkness  of  the  smithy,  where  reality  made  a  rude 
assault  upon  his  vision — had  disenchanted  Huntley.  He 
stood  on  the  brae  of  Tyne,  seeing  every  thing  with  practical 
and  undazzled  eyes,  feeling  himself  to  have  a  certain  claim, 
difficult  and  doubtful,  yet  real,  upon  the  lands  before  him ; 
but  seeing  all  the  obstacles  which  lay  in  its  way.  And, 
distinct  from  this,  far  apart  and  separate,  with  a  world 
between,  lay  the  fortune  far  more  secure  and  certain  which 
Huntley  had  to  make  with  his  own  hands. 

It  was  with  these  thoughts  that  he  entered  the  manse  of 
Kirkbride. 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NOEL  AW.  83 


CHAPTEE   XVII. 

DE.  LOGAN  was  in  his  study  writing  his  sermon — Katie 
was  alone  in  the  manse  parlor.  It  was  a  cheerful  room, 
looking  over  the  little  front  garden  and  down  the  brae  to 
the  roofs  of  the  village  from  its  front  window,  and  peeping 
out  through  a  flush  of  foliage  upon  Tyne  and  the  Melmar 
wo.ods  from  the  other.  The  furniture  was  very  simple,  the 
carpet  old,  the  walls  painted  of  an  ash-green,  which  was 
just  one  degree  better  than  the  drab-colored  complexion 
of  the  Norlaw  dining-room ;  but  notwithstanding,  the  room 
was  perfect  and  could  not  have  been  improved  upon. 
There  was  only  one  easy-chair,  and  that  was  sacred  to  the 
minister ;  the  others  were  of  the  ancient  fashion  of  drawing- 
room  chairs,  once  elaborately  painted  and  gilded,  but  now 
much  dimmed  of  their  pristine  splendor.  Katie's  own 
hands  had  made  all  the  pretty  chintz  covers,  which  fitted 
without  a  wrinkle,  and  the  result  was  extremely  satisfac 
tory — very  much  more  agreeable  to  look  upon  than  the 
crumpled  covers  of  the  Melmar  drawing-room.  There  was 
a  wonderful  screen  of  needle  work,  in  a  very  slim  ebony 
frame  in  one  corner,  an  old-fashioned  work  table,  with  a 
crimson  bag  and  inlaid  top,  which  could  answer  as  a  chess 
board,  in  another — and  a  low  bookcase,  full  of  books, 
between  the  door  and  the  end  window.  On  the  table,  at 
this  present  moment,  stood  a  basket,  of  goodly  dimensions, 
full  of  stockings — and  by  the  side  of  that  a  little  pile  of 
freshly-mangled  linen,  pinafores  and  other  small  garments 
in  want  of  strings  and  buttons.  It  was  Friday,  very  near 
the  end  of  the  week — so  the  minister,  too  wise  to  leave  his 
preparations  to  the  latest  day,  made  ready  for  his  weekly 
duty  in  the  study,  while  Katie  did  her  weekly  mendings  on 
the -same  principle  in  her  own  domain. 

"  You  may  go  to  the  study  if  you  please  Huntley — my 
father  will  be  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  young  mistress  of 
the  manse,  once  more  drawing  Johnnie's  sock  over  her  hand 
after  she  had  welcomed  her  visitor.  Huntley  did  not  avail 
himself  of  the  privilege  so  soon  as  he  might  have  done,  con 
sidering  that  he  had  come  with  the  intention  of  asking  ad- 


84  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

vice  from  the  minister.  It  was  pleasant  to  sit  down  in  that 
quiet,  bright,  home-like  room,  which  looked  as  though 
nothing  could  disturb  its  cheerful  composure,  and  see  that 
careful  little  woman  among  her  family  labors,  so  fresh,  and 
bright,  and  young,  yet  so  perfectly  in  her  place  among 
these  pleasant  cares.  Huntley,  whose  mind  was  in  a  tumult 
of  unaccustomed  anxieties,  and  who  felt  himself  oppressed 
with  a  burden  of  responsibility,  and  the  new  necessity  of 
deciding  for  himself,  sank  into  a  chair  opposite  Katie,  with 
a  sensation  of  rest  and  relief  which  he  had  not  felt  for 
weeks  before.  She  looked  up  to  him  brightly  with  those 
smiling  brown  eyes  which  were  so  young  and  yet  so  full  of 
elder-sisterly  thoughtfulness.  She  saw  in  a  moment  the 
shadow  on  Huntley's  face,  and  proceeded  to  minister  to  it 
as  if  it  had  been  a  cloud  upon  the  boyish  horizon  of  one  of 
her  own  young  brothers.  Katie  could  not  help  being  half 
maternal  even  to  Huntley. 

"  Something  ails  you,"  said  the  little  woman — "  are  you 
tired,  Huntley  ?  Oh,  I  mind  when  grief  was  here,  what 
hard,  hard  work  it  was  keeping  up  a  smile.  Never  mind 
me  ;  look  sorrowful,  if  you  like,  and  take  a  rest.  It  makes 
me  think  how  I  felt  myself  when  dear  mamma  died,  to  see 
you  keeping  up  a  face  like  that." 

"  Oh,  Katie,  I  wish  we  had  you  at  Norlaw !"  cried  the 
lad,  with  sudden  earnestness. 

"  Yes,"  said  Katie,  simply,  "  if  you  had  only  had  a  sister, 
Huntley  ! — but  Mrs.  Livingstone  does  not  care  for  strangers. 
And  mothers  are  sometimes  fondest  of  their  sons — every 
body  says  so ;  but  I  know  you're  the  eldest,  and  every  thing 
comes  on  you." 

"  Patie  is  the  wisest,"  said  Huntley,  with  a  momentary 
smile ;  "  I  think  he  could  manage  better  without  me — and, 
Katie,  I'll  have  to  go  away." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  question  in  her  eyes.  She 
asked  nothing  audibly,  but  merely  suspended  her  work,  and 
turned,  with  a  friendly  anxiety,  her  steady,  kind  gaze  upon 
Huntley's  face.  The  young  man  was  not  "  in  love" — he  was 
still  too  familiar  with  this  sisterly  face,  and  too  much  occu 
pied  with  all  the  sudden  troubles  in  which  he  had  himself 
been  plunged,  to  think  of  any  such  thing  ;  but,  unconscious 
ly,  Huntley  paused  before  answering — paused  to  take  the 
peaceful  scene,  the  home  apartment,  the  bright  serious  eyes 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NORLAW.  85 

into  his  memory,  a  picture  of  strange  influence  and  tender 
ness  never  to  fade. 

"  I  thought  of  going  to  Australia,"  he  said ;  "  they  say  a 
man  with  a  will  to  work  and  some  knowledge,  especially  of 
cattle,  is  sure  to  thrive  there.  It  matters  but  little,  I  think, 
Katie,  whether  I'm  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  miles  away,  so 
long  as  I  am  away ;  and  I  think  the  best  place  for  me  is 
there." 

"  But  Australia  is  many  a  thousand  miles  away,"  said 
Katie,  "  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  ;  and  you  can  not 
come  home  to  see  your  friends  as  you  might  do  from  a  near 
er  place.  If  you  go  there,  Huntley,  we'll  never  see  you 
again." 

"I'll  go  there,  that  I  may  come  back,"  said  Huntley,  ea 
gerly  ;  then  he  began  to  play  with  the  ball  of  cotton  which 
Katie  was  mending  her  children's  stockings  with ;  then  he 
looked  round  the  room  wistfully  once  more.  "  And  when 
I  do  come  home,"  said  the  lad,  "  Katie,  I  wonder,  I  wonder, 
what  changes  I'll  see  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  whisht !"  cried  Katie,  \vith  a  little  overflow  of  tears ; 
"  papa's  not  young,  but  he's  no'  very  old ;  and  if  it's  God's 
will,  we'll  aye  be  the  same." 

"  It  might  be  ten — fifteen  years,"  said  Huntley ;  "  and  I 
was  not  thinking  of  the  minister ;  I  was  thinking  of— other 
things." 

Katie  did  not  ask  what  these  other  things  might  be.  The 
color  rose  in  her  cheek  a  little,  but  not  enough  to  confuse  her. 

"  The  little  ones  will  be  all  grown  up,"  she  said,  with  a 
quiet  laugh ;  "  perhaps  some  of  them  away  too,  Huntley,  into 
the  battle ;  and  me  an  old  Katie  with  a  cap,  keeping  house 
for  papa." 

She  glanced  across  the  table  for  her  cotton  as  she  spoke, 
and,  meeting  Huntley's  eye,  blushed  a  little  more,  yet  was 
not  discomposed.  The  young  man's  heart  beat  louder,  he 
could  not  very  well  tell  why.  Some  confused  words  came 
rushing  into  his  mind,  but  none  of  them  were  fit  to  say. 
His  own  face  flushed  with  a  hasty  flood  of  unaccustomed 
and  unascertained  emotions;  he  rose  up  hastily,  scarcely 
knowing  how  it  was  that  the  repose  of  the  manse  parlor  was 
broken,  yet  feeling  it.  Dr.  Logan  called  Katie  from  his 
study,  and  Huntley  answered  the  call.  He  gave  back  the 
ball  of  cotton,  and  said  hurriedly : — 


86  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW. 

"  Dinna  forget  me,  Katie,  when  that  time  comes  ;"  and  so 
went  away. 

That  time !  what  time  ?  Huntley  could  have  given  no  ex 
planation  of  what  he  meant ;  neither  could  Katie,  who  put- 
up  her  hand  softly  to  her  eyes,  and  smiled  a  very  faint  smile, 
and  said,  "  Poor  boy !"  with  a  little  sigh  as  the  door  closed 
upon  him.  But  perhaps  explanations  would  have  done  but 
little  good,  and  every  thing  answered  perfectly  well  as  it  was. 

Huntley  came  with  a  blush  into  the  presence  of  the  inno 
cent  and  unconscious  minister,  who  had  forgotten  his  own 
youth  many  a  long  day  ago,  and  had  never  yet  been  roused 
into  consciousness  that  his  little  Katie  might  be  something 
else  than  a  good  child  and  elder  sister,  in  the  perverse  im 
aginations  of  other  people.  He  looked  up  from  his  desk 
and  his  manuscript,  and  pushed  up  his  spectacles  on  his  fore 
head  when  the  young  man  entered. 

"  Huntley !  is  that  you  ?  What's  wrong,  my  man  ?"  said 
Dr.  Logan.  He  thought  the  lad  could  not  have  seen  Katie, 
or  he  must  have  become  more  composed  by  this  time  ;  and 
the  excellent  pastor  thought  of  nothing  else  than  some  new 
accident  or  coil  at  Norlaw. 

"  Nothing's  wrong,"  said  Huntley,  who  only  blushed  the 
more  in  shamefaced  self-consciousness,  "  but  I  wanted  to 
ask  your  advice." 

Dr.  Logan  laid  down  his  pen  with  resignation  ;  it  was  a 
new  pen,  sharply  nibbed,  such  as  the  minister  loved,  and  he 
had  just  got  a  capital  idea  for  the  third  head  of  his  sermon, 
an  idea  which  might  be  nowhere  before  Huntley  had  half 
stated  his  case.  The  minister  paused  a  moment,  trying  very 
hard  to  connect  his  idea  with  something  in  the  room  which 
might  recall  it  to  him  when  his  visitor  was  gone.  He  tried 
the  inkstand,  the  pretty  paper-weight  on  the  table,  and  even 
his  large  red  and  green  pocket-handkerchief,  in  vain.  At 
last  he  thought  he  had  secured  it  on  the  knob  of  the  glass 
door  of  his  bookcase ;  he  nodded  ruefully  to  Huntley  and 
made  a  knot  on  his  handkerchief. 

"  Now,  Huntley,  proceed,  my  boy,"  said  the  minister  with 
a  sigh ;  he  held  the  knot  on  the  handkerchief  in  his  hand, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  bookcase.  Certainly  he  had  it 
safe  now. 

Huntley,  glad  to  get  out  of  his  embarrassment  so,  plunged 
at  once  into  his  tale.  He  could  not  quite  make  out  how  it 


THE     LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  87 

was  that  the  excellent  doctor  looked  so  steadily  at  the  book 
case,  and  gave  himself  such  divided  and  wandering  answers. 
However,  at  last  the  minister  forgot  his  idea,  and  threw 
away  the  handkerchief  in  despair. 

"  Eh  ?  what  was  that  you  were  saying,  Huntley  ?"  said 
Dr.  Logan.  The  story  had  to  be  gone  over  again.  But,  to 
Huntley's  surprise,  his  friend  knew  all  about  it,  more  about 
it  indeed  than  he  did  himself,  and  shook  his  head  when 
Huntley  vehemently  declared  his  conviction  that  he  was 
the  true  heir  of  Melmar. 

"  I  make  no  doubt,"  said  the  minister,  "  that  if  she  could 
be  found,  the  will  would  stand — but  I  mind  the  writer  lay 
ing  it  down  very  clear  to  me  and  Norlaw  at  the  time  that 
ye  behoved  to  produce  her  alive  or  dead— that  is,  by  evi 
dence  in  the  last  case,  no  doubt — before  your  case  could 
stand.  It  might  be  well  worth  a  man's  while  that  had 
enough  to  keep  him,  and  nothing  else  to  do — but  I  would 
not  advise  you  to  put  off  your  time  seeking  Mary  Huntley. 
You're  the  eldest  son  and  the  prop  of  your  family.  I  would 
not  advise  it,  Huntley,  my  man." 

"  Nor  do  I  mean  it,"  said  Huntley,  with  a  blush  at  his 
own  wild  fancies  ;  "  and  if  I  had  known  that  you  knew  it 
so  well,  I  should  not  even  have  troubled  you.  No,  doctor, 
I've  written  to  your  friend  in  Edinburgh — I  want  him  to 
take  all  our  affairs  in  hand,  and  save,  if  it  is  possible,  Nor- 
law  itself  for  my  mother.  What  we'll  have  to  begin  upon 
after,  I  can't  very  well  tell — but  Cosmo  is  the  only  one  of 
us  too  young  to  set  out  for  himself.  I  will  leave  the  other 
matter  with  Mr.  Cassilis,  and  he  can  do  what  he  thinks  best." 

"  Very  wise,  Huntley,  very  wise,"  said  the  minister, 
whose  mind  was  still  fumbling  after  his  idea ;  "  and  you're 
thinking  of  going  abroad  yourself,  they  tell  me  ? — I  don't 
doubt  it's  a  shock  to  your  mother,  but  I  would  say  it  was 
the  best  thing  you  could  do.  Charlie  Cassilis,  no  doubt, 
will  be  coming  here.  He's  aye  very  willing  to  come  to  the 
manse.  I'll  make  Katie  write  him  a  line  to-day,  to  say 
we'll  expect  him — and  any  thing  I  can  do  to  further  the 
business,  you  know  you  can  rely  upon — eh  ?  what  was  that 
you  said  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Huntley,  "  except  that  there's  little  time 
to  lose,  and  I  am  interrupting  you.  Good-bye,  Dr.  Logan 
— I'll  see  you  again  before  I  go  away." 


88  TUE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

"  Before  he  goes  away,"  said  the  minister,  with  per 
plexity,  half  rising  to  follow  Huntley,  as  he  hurried  from 
the  room  ;  "  what  does  the  callant  mean  ?"  But  just  then 
Dr.  Logan's  eye  returned  to  the  knob  of  the  bookcase, 
which  no  longer  recalled  that  precious  lost  idea.  "  Poor 
human  nature !"  said  the  good  man,  with  a  sigh.  He 
thought  it  rather  selfish  of  Huntley  to  have  disturbed  his 
studies  just  at  that  particular  moment — and  it  was  the 
young  man's  human  nature  over  which  he  sighed. 

Huntley,  meanwhile,  went  back  again  to  Norlaw  in  a 
greater  tumult  of  mind  than  that  which  had  brought  him 
forth.  But  he  no  longer  thought  of  Melmar  as  he  had  done 
in  that  sudden  golden  vision  of  fortune  and  conquest.  His 
heart  leaped  within  him  like  one  on  the  verge  of  a  new 
world.  These  three  scenes  through  which  he  had  passed  : 
— bowed  Jaacob's  odd  philosophy  and  startling  ground 
work — "  Trust  in  nothing  that  you  have  not  conquered  for 
yourself;"  Katie's  quiet^ home-parlor,  her  blush  and  glance 
of  kindness,  which  perhaps  understood  his  unspoken  and 
sudden  fervor  as  well  as  he  did  himself;  and,  beyond 
these,  the  sober,  calm  every-day  minister,  giving  only  an 
outside  and  momentary  attention  to  those  matters  in  which 
this  young  life  had  all  its  hopes  at  stake,  minding  his  ser 
mon,  and  only  kindly  indifferent  to  Huntley,  had  brought 
the  youth  on  a  long  way  in  the  education  of  his  life.  He 
could  not  have  put  it  all  into  words,  or  explained  it  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  philosopher ;  yet  the  shock  of  reality  and 
actual  life  which  brought  him  back  to  himself  in  the  little 
smithy  of  Kirkbride — the  warm  light  of  Katie's  eyes  which 
had  stirred,  with  something  of  personal  and  distinct  identity, 
separate  from  family  interests,  and  individual  in  the  world, 
the  young  man's  heart  and  spirit — and  not  least,  though 
very  different,  the  composed  friendliness  of  the  minister, 
pre-occupied  with  his  sermon,  who  had  only  a  very  spare 
amount  of  attention  to  bestow  upon  Huntley,  and  showed 
him  that  the  world  in  general  was  not  likely  to  be  much 
absorbed  by  his  interests,  or  startled  by  his  hopes — were 
all  very  real,  practical  and  permanent  lessons.  They  sent 
him  back  to  Norlaw  an  older  man. 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW.  89 


CHAPTEK    XVIII. 

MR.  CASSILIS  came  to  the  manse  in  answer  to  Katie's  in 
vitation  and  the  business  of  Huntley.  He  was  young  and 
did  not  particularly  commend  himself  to  the  liking  of  the 
young  master  of  Norlaw ;  but  as  he  pleased  all  the  other 
people  very  tolerably  well,  there  were,  perhaps,  various 
reasons  for  the  less  friendly  sentiment  of  Huntley.  He  was, 
however,  a  brisk  man  of  business,  and  not  sufficiently  over 
burdened  with  occupation  to  prevent  him  entering  heartily 
into  the  concerns  of  the  half-ruined  family. 

All  this  time  Patrick  Livingstone  had  been  quietly  busy, 
collecting  and  arranging  all  his  father's  memoranda  which 
seemed  to  throw  any  light  upon  their  circumstances  ;  among 
these  were  many  hurried,  and  only  half  intelligible  notes  of 
transactions  with  the  former  Huntley  of  Melmar,  from 
which  it  very  shortly  appeared  that  Norlaw's  debts  had  all 
been  contracted  to  his  old  kinsman,  and  had  only  come  into 
possession  of  "  the  present  Melmar,"  when  he  took  posses 
sion  of  the  house  and  property,  as  heir-at-law,  on  the  old 
man's  death.  They  had  suspected  this  before,  for  it  seemed 
very  unlikely  that  one  man  should  borrow  of  another,  whose 
claims  were  so  entirely  antagonistic  to  his  own — but  these 
were  their  only  real  evidence — for  IsToiiaw  had  been  so  irreg 
ular  and  unsystematic  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what 
money  might  or  might  not  have  passed  through  his  hands. 

The  lawyer  took  all  these  scratchy  memorandums  out  of 
Patrick's  hands,  and  examined  them  carefully  in  presence 
of  the  lads.  They  were  in  the  east  room,  in  the  midst  of  a 
pile  of  old  papers  from  which  these  had  been  selected. 
Patie  had  not  completed  his  task — he  was  going  over  his 
father's  letters,  to  see  whether  they  threw  any  light  on 
these  forgotten  transactions.  It  was  no  small  task;  for 
Norlaw,  like  most  other  men  of  trifling  habits  and  unim 
portant  correspondence,  kept  every  thing  that  everybody 
wrote  to  him,  and  even  scrawls  of  his  own  letters.  Some 
of  these  scrawls  were  curious  enough — among  them  were 
one  or  two  anxious  and  elaborate  epistles  to  people  abroad, 
whom  his  search  for  his  lost  love  had  brought  him  into  con 
tact  with  ;  some,  dating  still  further  back,  were  intimations 


90  THE    LAIKD    OP    NOELAW. 

of  the  birth  of  his  children,  and  other  family  events  of  im 
portance  to  his  wife's  relations.  They  were  all  composed 
with  considerable  care,  and  in  somewhat  pompous  diction  ; 
they  threw  wonderful  light  upon  the  weaknesses  and  vani 
ties  of  this  departed  life,  and  indifferent  people  might  have 
laughed  at  them  —  but  Huntley  and  Patie  blushed  instead 
of  laughing,  or  folded  the  scrawls  away  hurriedly  with  tears 
in  their  eyes.  To  them  these  memorials  were  still  pathetic, 
tender,  full  of  a  touching  appeal  to  their  affection,  too  sacred 
to  meet  the  common  eye. 

Presently,  however,  Patie  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  hand 
writing  still  more  scratchy  than  his  father's  —  the  trembling 
characters  of  old  age.  It  was  a  letter  from  old  Melmar,  the 
most  important  they  had  yet  lighted  upon  —  and  ran  thus  :  — 


PATRICK, 

"  Touching  the  matter  that  was  under  discussion  betwixt 
us  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  I  have  just  this  to  say,  namely, 
that  I  hold  your  receipts  and  acknowledgments  for  money 
in  the  interests  of  your  wife  and  family,  and  not  in  my  own. 
I  know  well  what  would  happen  if  you  knew  yourself  free 
to  incur  more  respnsibility  ;  so,  mind  you,  though  you'll 
get  them  all  at  iny  death,  and  most  likely  Melmar  to  the 
boot,  I'll  take  care,  as  long  as  I'm  to  the  fore,  to  keep  my 
hand  over  you  for  your  good.  You  can  let  the  Mistress  see 
this  if  you  please,  and  I'll  wager  a  bodle  she  agrees  with 
me.  I  can  not  give  you  them  back  —  but  unless  you  behave 
all  the  worse,  they'll  never  leave  my  hands  until  they  return 
to  your  own. 

"H.  HUNTLEY." 

"  Eh  !  what's  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Cassilis,  looking  up  from 
his  little  lot  of  papers,  as  he  saw  the  two  brothers  pass  this 
letter  between  them. 

They  were  half  reluctant  to  show  it  ;  and  when  Huntley 
at  last  handed  it  across  the  table  it  was  with  a  proud 
apology. 

"  My  father  was  generous  and  liberal  to  the  extreme.  I 
suppose  he  was  not  what  people  call  prudent  ;  few  under 
stood  him,"  said  Huntley. 

The  lawyer  took  the  paper  with  a  half  perceptible  smile. 
He  knew  already  what  other  people  said  of  Norlaw. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  91 

However,  lie  added  old  Melmar's  letter  with  care  to  his 
own  heap  of  scribbled  memoranda. 

"  It's  not  very  much  good,"  he  said,  "but  it  shows  inten 
tion.  Unquestionably,  neither  the  giver  nor  the  receiver 
had  any  thought  of  payment  for  these  loans.  I  had  better 
see  the  present  man  to-morrow.  What  with  the  will  and 
these  he  ought  to  come  to  reason." 

"  Me'mar  ?"  cried  Huntley — "  no,  I  can  have  no  appeal 
made  to  him  on  our  behalf.  Do  you  know  how  he  perse 
cuted  my  father  ?" 

"  I'm  not  much  of  an  appealing  man,"  said  Cassilis,  "  but  I 
had  better  see  him.  Don't  be  afraid — I'll  not  compromise 
you.  You  did  not  know  much  of  the  matter  yourself,  I 
understand,  till  recently.  Be  charitable — suppose  he  were 
as  ignorant  as  you  ?" 

"  Stop  !"  cried  Patie,  "  never  mind  personal  feelings — is 
that  all  the  value  of  the  will  ? — to  bring  him  to  reason  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  find  Mary  Huntley,"  said  the  young  lawyer. 

If  _Z"find.  The  young  men  exchanged  glances — not  quite 
sure  that  they  were  pleased  with  this  transference  of  their 
interests. 

"  If  she's  to  be  found  alive — or  if  she's  dead,  and  we  can 
prove  it,  every  thing,  of  course,  becomes  as  clear  as  day 
light,"  said  the  minister's  nephew,  "  and  many  a  man  would 
tell  you  that  in  these  days  either  the  one  thing  or  the  other 
is  certain ;  but  I've  had  some  experience.  I  know  there 
have  been  cases  in  which  every  effort  was  baffled ;  and  fail 
ing  either,  I  don't  see  at  this  moment  what's  to  be  done. 
You  expect  me  to  say,  go  to  law,  of  course,  but  who's  to 
pay  the  piper  ?  Law's  a  very  expensive  luxury.  Wait  till 
you're  rich,  and  then  come  down  upon  him — that  is  to  say, 
if  this  search  fails." 

"  But  it  is  at  least  worth  while  to  make  the  search,"  said 
Huntley,  hastily,  "  and  if  it  is  so,  it  is  too  soon  to  treat  with 
Melmar.  Friendship  is  out  of  the  question.  Let  us  deal 
with  him  honestly.  I  can  not  accept  a  favor  from  a  man  one 
day  and  commence  a  lawsuit  against  him  the  next ;  it  is  not 
possible." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  Cassilis,  coolly  sweeping  all  his 
papers  up  into  a  pocket-book,  "you've  committed  your 
affairs  into  my  hands,  and  I  mean  to  do  my  best  for  my 
client,  begging  your  pardon,  whether  my  client  perceives 


92  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

my  tactics  or  no.  Don't  be  offended.  I'll  claim  these  said 
acknowledgments  as  your  right,  and  not  as  a  favor.  I  want 
to  see  what  kind  of  an  animal  this  is  that  we're  to  fight ; 
and  to  let  you  see  what  I  mean,  I  may  as  well  say  that  I've 
heard  all  the  history  of  the  last  few  weeks,  and  that  I  under 
stand  your  feelings ;  but  feelings,  Livingstone,  recollect,  as 
your  brother  says,  have  little  to  do  with  the  law." 

Huntley  could  make  very  little  further  opposition ;  but  he 
did  not  respond  by  any  means  to  his  new  agent's  friendli 
ness  ;  he  received  it  even  with  a  little  hauteur  and  surliness, 
like  a  ridiculous  young  hero,  finding  out  condescension  and 
superiority,  and  sundry  other  of  those  agreeable  figments 
of  the  jealous  imagination,  in  the  natural  frankness  of  the 
young  lawyer.  If  he  had  been  fifty,  or  had  known  nothing  of 
the  manse,  possibly  Mr.  Charles  Cassilis,  W.  S.,  would  have 
made  a  more  favorable  impression  upon  Huntley  Living 
stone. 


CHAPTEE    XIX. 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  fool  ?" 

The  speaker  was  Huntley  of  Melmar,  seated  at  that 
moment  in  his  large  leathern  easy-chair  at  his  own  study- 
table  ;  this  was  a  long  dim  room,  lined  with  dusty-looking 
bookcases,  and  lighted  faintly  by  one  window,  from  which 
nothing  could  be  seen  but  a  funereal  yew-tree,  which  kept 
the  room  in  perpetual  shade.  The  whole  apartment  had  a 
stifled,  unventilated  look,  as  if  fresh  air  never  entered  it,  as 
sunshine  certainly  never  did ;  even  in  winter  no  fire  could 
be  coaxed  into  a  blaze  in  Melmar's  study — every  thing  was 
dusty,  choked,  and  breathless,  partaking  in  the  general 
want  of  order  visible  through  the  house,  with  private  addi 
tions  of  cheerlessness  peculiarly  its  own. 

And  there  could  not  well  be  a  greater  contrast  than  the 
two  people  in  this  room ;  Cassilis  was  young,  good-looking, 
rather  careless  in  manner,  shrewd  and  quick,  as  became  his 
profession,  but  by  no  means  formal,  as  might  have  become 
it.  He  was  not  the  solemn  bearer  of  a  legal  challenge — a 
messenger  of  heroical  enmity  or  hereditary  dislike  ;  he  was 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  93 

only  a  morning  visitor  in  a  morning  coat,  quite  as  ready  to 
talk  of  the  last  change  of  ministry  or  the  ensuing  election  as 
of  the  immediate  business  which  brought  him.  here.  Mel- 
mar  sat  watching  him  like  an  old  cat,  stealthy  and  absorbed. 
In  his  day  business  was  managed  in  a  different  manner  ;  and 
the  old  Aberdeen  attorney  watched  with  a  chuckle  of  pro 
fessional  contempt  and  private  satisfaction  the  informal  pro 
ceedings  of  his  younger  brother  and  adversary.  Mr.  Hunt- 
ley  thought  himself  much  too  "  deep"  for  the  fathoming  of 
this  careless  neophyte,  while  his  visitor,  on  the  other  hand, 
found  equal  satisfaction  in  setting  down  the  Laird  of  Mel- 
mar  as  one  of  the  old  school. 

"  Not  exactly,"  sai$  Cassilis,  "  but  it's  odd  how  often  a 
fool  and  a  man  of  sense  are  convertible  terms.  A  man  does 
a  thing  from  a  generous  motive,  and  that's  ridiculous,  eh, 
Mr.  Huntley  ?  absurd  to  men  of  the  world  like  you  and  me, 
who  don't  recognize  the  principle;  but  mind  you,  there 
might  be  circumstances  which  might  induce  the  most  saga 
cious  of  us,  out  of  pure  self-regard  and  prudence,  to  do  the 
very  same  thing  as  the  blockhead  did  out  of  generosity; 
the  result  would  be  the  same,  you  know,  in  both  cases — 
and  who  is  to  judge  whether  it  is  done  by  a  wise  man  or  a 
fool  ?" 

"Aye,  man,  you're  ironical,  are  you?"  said  Melmar, 
"  very  good  practice,  but  it  does  not  do  with  me — I'm  too 
old  for  inuendoes ;  come,  to  the  point.  You've  got  a  foolish 
case  by  the  hand,  though,  of  course,  as  an  older  man  and 
member  of  the  profession,  I  think  it  perfectly  right  of  you 
not  to  seem  conscious  of  that — -perfectly  proper.  I  highly 
approve  of  your  demeanor  in  a  professional  point  of  view, 
my  young  friend." 

"  Which  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Cassilis,  laughing ;  "  I 
think  it  all  the  more  so  because  I  can't  agree  with  you.  Do 
you  know,  I  hear  everywhere  about  the  country  that  there 
could  not  be  a  greater  difference  than  between  young  Liv 
ingstone  and  his  father  ? — quite  a  different  man,  I  under 
stand." 

"  Eh  ?  and  what's  that  to  me  ?"  asked  Melmar,  sharply. 

"  Well,  you  know,  between  ourselves  as  professional 
men,"  said  Cassilis,  laughing  and  speaking  with  the  most 
delightful  frankness,  "  if  this  Norlaw  had  been  a  man  of 
spirit  and  energy,  like  his  son,  or  indeed  worth  his  salt,  as 


94  THE    LAIED    OP    NOELAW. 

people  say,  you  know  just  as  well  as  I  do — possibly  far 
better,  for  I  bow  to  your  experience — that  you  could  not 
have  had  a  chance  of  reigning  here  as  you  have  done  for  so 
many  years." 

"  What  the  deevil  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  cried  Melmar, 
growing  red  and  half  rising  from  his  chair;  "is  this  lan 
guage  to  hold  to  me,  in  my  own  house  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  was  only  appealing  to  your  professional  knowl 
edge,"  said  the  young  man,  carelessly.  "  When  you  speak 
to  me  of  the  profession,  of  course  I  necessarily  conclude  that 
you  are,  at  least,  as  well-informed  as  I  am — and  this  is  clear 
to  anybody  with  half  an  eye.  Mind  you,  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  young  Livingstone's  claim  is  weaker  than  his 
father's — you  know  it  is  not.  I  feel  indeed  that  the  whole 
matter  is  immensely  simplified  by  having  a  professional  man 
like  yourself  to  deal  with — for  I  don't  presume  to  suppose 
that  I  am  telling  you  any  thing  that  you  don't  know  already; 
but  possibly — I  can't  tell — the  young  man  may  not  feel  it  for 
his  interest  to  push  his  claims  at  this  moment.  It's  for  my 
interest  that  he  should,  of  course,  for  it  will  be  a  capital 
case — but  we  can  both  wait;  however,  under  the  circum 
stances,  I  am  perfectly  justified  in  asking  you  to  consider 
whether  the  little  restitution  I  suggested  to  you  would  be 
the  act  of  a  fool  or  of  a  wise  man." 

Melmar  had  been  gazing  with  a  kind  of  hazy,  speechless 
wrath  at  the  speaker,  who  passed  so  jauntily  and  lightly  over 
this  subject,  and  took  his  own  perfect  acquaintance  with  its 
right  and  wrong,  for  granted,  with  so  much  coolness.  When 
Cassilis  came  to  this  pause,  however,  no  explosion  followed. 
The  florid  face  grew  redder  with  a  bursting  fiery  fullness,  in 
which  even  the  grizzled  red  fringes  of  hair  sympathized — 
.  but,  in  spite  of  himself,  Melmar  was  afraid.  His  "  young 
friend,"  whom  he  had  patronized  and  despised,  seemed 
somehow  to  have  got  him  completely  in  his  power — seemed 
to  see  into  the  very  thoughts  of  the  old  worldling,  who 
thought  himself  so  much  wiser  than  his  adversary.  He 
made  a  pause  of  consideration,  and  felt  much  the  reverse  of 
comfortable.  The  unconcerned  air  of  his  visitor,  which  had 
relieved  him  at  first,  seemed  somehow  to  give  greater  weight 
to  his  words  now.  If  these  downright  blows  were  given  in 
play,  what  should  the  serious  strokes  of  the  same  hand  be  ? 
and  Melmar  knew  very  well  that  the  strength  of  his  oppo- 


THE    LAIED    OF   NOELAW.  95 

nent's  case  lay  in  plain  right  and  justice,  while  his  was  only 
to  be  held  by  art  and  stratagem.  While  he  pondered,  a 
sudden  thought  struck  him — he  rose,  went  to  the  window, 
glanced  out  there  for  a  moment — then  to  the  door,  opened 
it  and  glanced  along  the  long  passage  to  make  sure  there 
were  no  listeners — then  he  returned  to  his  chair,  and  bent 
towards  the  young  lawyer,  who  had  been  watching  all  his 
proceedings  with  a  half  amused  curiosity. 

"  To  make  an  end  of  all  this,"  said  Melmar,  with  a  very 
good  imitation  of  impatience,  "  and  because  they  are  rela 
tives  of  the  old  family,  and  friends,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — 
and  to  prove  that  I'm  sorry  for  what  took  place  at  Norlaw's 
funeral — I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  consent  to  do — " 

"  Well  ?"  said  Cassilis,  quietly. 

"  I'll  consent,"  continued  Melmar,  "  because  I'm  not  a 
man  to  have  a  will,  or  a  bill,  or  any  thing  of  the  sort  stuck 
into  my  face  every  moment  of  my  life — I'll  consent  to  give 
up  all  Norlaw's  papers,  every  one  of  them,  as  a  matter  of 
favor,  on  condition  that  this  document,  that  you've  all  made 
so  much  work  about,  shall  be  placed  in  my  hands.  After 
which  I'll  be  able  to  look  after  my  kinswoman's  interests  in 
the  proper  way — for,  as  for  the  fiction  about  those  Living 
stones,  who  have  no  more  claim  to  Melmar  than  you  have, 
thaVs  quite  beneath  any  notice  from  me.  But  on  that  con 
dition,  and  to  be  done  with  the  business,  I'll  consent  to  give 
up  all  my  claims  against  Norlaw ;  and  a  more  liberal  oifer 
never  was  made." 

The  young  man  looked  steadily,  and  with  a  smile,  into  the 
old  man's  face — indeed,  Mr.  Cassilis  went  a  step  further,  and 
did  what  is  sometimes  extremely  impertinent,  and  always 
embarrassing.  He  looked  into  Melmar's  eyes  with  a  keen, 
yet  laughing  gaze,  which  his  companion  could  by  no  means 
bear,  and  which  made  the  florid  face  once  more  fiery  red 
with  a  troubled  and  apprehensive  rage. 

"  Would  you  advise  me  to  accept  this  offer  as  one  profes 
sional  man  might  advise  another?"  said  Cassilis,  quietly, 
with  his  smile.  That  smile,  and  that  look,  and  that  question, 
silenced  Melmar  a  thousand  times  more  effectually  than  a 
vehement  refusal  of  his  proposition.  This  man  was  some 
times  bold,  but  he  was  never  brave.  He  saw  himself  found 
out  in  the  laughing  eyes  of  his  young  antagonist.  He 
thought  he  had  committed  himself  and  exposed  his  weak 


96  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

point — somehow  he  seemed  to  stand  self-betrayed  and  un- 
vailed  before  this  stranger,  whose  gaze  was  intolerable,  and 
whose  question  he  should  have  liked  to  answer  with  a 
curse,  proper  man  as  he  was,  if  he  had  dared.  But  he  did 
not  dare,  though  the  self-restraining  effort  brought  the  per 
spiration  to  his  forehead.  He  scattered  some  papers  on  the 
table  with  an  irrestrainable  movement,  a  little  safety-valve 
for  his  secret  fury. 

"  Do  as  you  please,  you'll  get  no  better,"  he  said,  hoarsely, 
gathering  them  up  again,  and  turning  his  face  from  his 
young  adversary,  who  did  not  now  seem  quite  an  opponent 
to  be  despised. 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  said  Mr.  Cassilis,  with  that  engaging 
candor  of  his,  "that  it's  very  much  for  my  interest  that 
young  Livingstone  should  carry  on  his  suit  at  once.  It's 
for  my  interest,  in  short,  to  protract  the  whole  business  to 
my  utmost  ability  ;  and  a  highly  attractive  case  I  have  no 
cloubt  we  should  make  of  it — especially,  Mr.  Huntley,  espe 
cially  permit  me  to  say,  after  the  proposal  you  have  just 
made.  However,  we  understand  all  that,  both  you  and  I, 
and  I  must  ask  you  again  to  consider  what  I  said  at  first ; 
here  is  this  old  man's  letter,  proving  his  intentions  pretty 
distinctly;  on  our  part  we  will  not  pay  a  penny  under  less 
than  compulsion.  I  leave  it  entirely  in  your  own  hands — 
what  will  you  do  ?" 

Patricia  Huntley  was  all  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
knew  when  Mr.  Cassilis  entered ;  she  knew  he  had  been 
shut  up  with  papa  for  a  very  considerable  time.  She  did 
not  know  any  thing  of  the  questions  which  were  being  put 
in  the  study,  or  how  hard  they  were  to  answer.  Though 
she  read  poetry-books,  this  poor  little  creature  had  very 
little  to  occupy  her,  save  her  bad  health  and  her  limited 
imagination — a  visitor  was  an  event  to  Patricia — especially 
when  the  visitor  was  young,  rather  handsome,  and  newly 
come  from  Edinburgh.  She  thought  she  might  as  well  take 
an  accidental  stroll  into  the  garden,  and  see  what  the  gen 
tlemen  were  about  in  the  study.  Accordingly,  with  her 
poetry-book  in  her  hand,  Patricia  stole  behind  the  yew-tree 
just  at  this  particular  moment  and  crisis  of  the  conversation. 
She  could  see  them  both  through  the  dim  window,  papa 
tumbling  about  his  papers,  and  looking  very  stormy,  Mr. 
Cassilis,  smiling  and  genial  as  he  alwavs  was.  Perhaps  the 


I 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  97 

younger  face  of  the  two,  being  much  the  pleasanter,  was, 
spite  of  filial  veneration,  the  most  attractive  to  Patricia. 
She  thought  Mr.  Cassilis,  who  had  been  so  long  a  time  in 
the  study,  must  surely  have  some  very  pleasant  news  to 
tell — but  at  the  same  time,  with  sincere  and  disinterested 
concern,  felt  that  he  must  be  dreadfully  bored  by  so  long 
an  interview  with  papa.  With  a  generous  impulse  she  ap 
proached  the  window,  and  knocked  on  the  glass  playfully 
with  her  fingers. 

"  Papa,  when  do  you  mean  to  come  to  luncheon  ?"  cried 
Patricia. 

Melmar  started  up,  opened  the  window,  cried  "  Get  away, 
ou  little  fool ! — who  wanted  you  ?"  and  shook  his  fist  at 
ler  menacingly.  Poor  Patricia  sprang  back  in  terror,  and 
lost  her  breath  immediately.  She  did  not  know,  and  per 
haps  if  she  had  known,  would  not  have  appreciated,  the 
great  relief  which  th?'s  little  ebullition  was  to  Melmar.  He 
went  back  quite  refreshed  to  finish  his  fight ;  but  his  poor 
little  daughter,  who  did  not  understand  it,  first  fell  a-crying, 
and  then,  drying  her  eyes,  proceeded  to  revenge  herself. 
She  sought  out  Joanna  immediately,  and  informed  that 
heroine  of  something  extraordinary  and  mysterious  going 
on  in  the  study — and  of  the  unaccountable  and  inexcusable 
affront  to  herself,  "  before  Mr.  Cassilis !"  which  Patricia 
could  not  forgive.  Luncheon  was  ordered  immediately, 
half  an  hour  before  its  time,  and  Joanna  herself  went  off"  to 
the  study  like  a  gale  of  wind,  to  order  papa  into  the  dining- 
room.  But  the  scene  had  changed  by  this  time  in  Melmar's 
private  apartment.  Mr.  Cassilis  was  writing  when  Joanna 
entered,  while  her  father  stood  by  him  holding  some  papers, 
and  looking,  stealthily  watchful,  over  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  so  like  an  old  brindled  big  cat  in  the  most  feline 
concentration  of  vigilance,  that  Joanna's  irreverent  imagin 
ation  was  tickled  with  the  resemblance. 

"  Eh,  papa,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  laugh,  "  I  would 
not  like  to  be  a  mouse  in  your  way ! — but  Mr.  Cassilis  is  too 
big  for  a  mouse,"  added  Joanna ;  "  come  to  luncheon,  it's 
ready — but  I  don't  believe  Patricia  will  ever  speak  to  you 
again — what  are  these  ?" 

"  No  business  of  yours,  you  gipsy !"  said  Melmar,  as  she 
pulled  at  his  papers. 

"Eh,  but  it  is — I  can  see  Norlaw's  name!"  cried  Joanna; 

5 


98  THE    LAIED    OF    NOBLAW. 

"  Mr.  Cassilis,  tell  Mrs.  Livingstone  that  we  know — and  that 
I  think  shame  of  papa ! — and  if  it  was  not  that  I  could  not 
help  it,  I  never,  never,  would  have  spoken  to  him  again ! 
What  are  you  getting  all  these  papers  for  ?  If  it's  to  hurt 
the  boys  you  shanna  take  them  out  of  Melmar!  You 
sha'n't,  whatever  he  may  say !" 

"  Softly — Mr.  Huntley  of  Melmar  will  hurt  the  Living 
stones  no  more,"  said  Cassilis. 

Meanwhile  Melmar  read  the  young  lawyer's  receipt  for 
these  precious  bits  of  paper  with  no  very  pleasant  face.  It 
was  a  great  deal  too  carefully  worded  to  be  of  any  ulterior 
service.  Even  the  pettifogging  ingenuity  of  the  "  old 
school"  did  not  see  at  present  any  capabilities  in  it. 


CHAPTEK   XX. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  the  young  lawyer 
dropped  in  quietly,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  to  Norlaw. 

Huntley  was  busy  in  the  out-buildings  of  the  farm.  He 
was  taking  an  inventory  of  ah1  their  stock  and  belongings, 
and  making  such  an  estimate  as  he  could,  which  was  a 
very  correct  one  on  the  whole,  of  the  value  of  this  primitive 
property.  Every  thing  about  the  house  was  going  on  very 
much  as  usual.  The  Mistress  was  seated  at  the  end  window 
of  the  dining-room,  in  a  position  which  not  only  commanded 
the  kitchen  door  and  all  its  comings  and  goings,  but  was 
likewise  a  good  post  of  observation  for  the  farm-yard  in 
which  Huntley  was.  The  stillness  and  heat  of  summer 
brooded  over  the  old  castle  walls,  and  even  over  the  farm 
yard,  where  the  very  poultry  drowsed  in  their  afternoon 
siesta.  The  apples  were  growing  ruddy  on  the  Norlaw 
trees,  and  the  slope  of  the  hill  brightened  in  russet  gold  to 
wards  the  harvest.  An  Irish  "  shearer,"  with  his  sickle  over 
his  shoulder,  waited  at  a  humble  distance,  till  the  young 
master  was  ready  to  hear  his  application  for  work;  the 
weather  was  unusually  favorable  and  the  season  early.  In 
another  week  or  ten  days  everybody  prophesied  the  harvest 
would  begin. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  99 

Huntlcy  Livingstone,  however,  was  not  thinking  of  the 
harvest.  His  mind  was  busy  with  thoughts  of  the  wild  bush 
far  away,  the  savage  young  colonies  then  but  little  advanced 
in  their  progress,  and  the  long  years  of  solitary  labor  which 
lay  before  him.  He  was  not  by  any  means  in  high  spirits. 
Melmar  had  faded  out  of  his  fancy  like  a  dream.  He 
thought  he  perceived  just  what  degree  of  probability  there 
was  in  that  vision  of  fortune,  and  turning  his  back  upon  it, 
he  set  his  face  towards  the  sober,  homely,  real  future  which 
must  begin  by  the  serious  and  solitary  toil  of  so  many  years. 

So  that  Huntley  was  by  no  means  delighted  to  be  inter 
rupted  in  the  midst  of  his  task  by  the  salutation  of  the  young 
lawyer.  He  turned  round  immediately  and  put  down  his 
memorandum-book,  but  not  with  much  cordiality.  Cassilis 
was  smiling — he  always  smiled ;  on  the  whole,  this  rather 
aggravated  Huntley. 

"I've  got  something  for  you,"  said  the  lawyer,  holding  up 
the  same  pocket-book  into  which  he  had  put  Norlaw's  mem 
oranda.  He  spoke  with  real  glee  and  triumph.  Independent 
altogether  of  the  interests  of  the  family,  he  felt  he  had  made 
quite  a  professional  success,  and  enjoyed  it  accordingly. 

"  What  ?"  said  Huntley — he  was  half  unwilling  to  per 
ceive  that  this  was  some  advantage  gained  over  the  enemy. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  in  a  different  direction,  and  did 
not  want  to  be  moved  back  again  by  any  new  shift  of  for 
tune.  But  when  the  pocket  book  was  opened  and  its  con 
tents  disclosed — when  Huntley  saw  before  him,  safe  and 
certain,  those  old  yellow  bonds  and  obligations  signed  with 
his  father's  name,  the  young  man  was  startled — and  the  first 
idea  of  his  unfriendliness  was,  that  they  had  been  purchased 
by  some  concession. 

"  You  have  given  up  our  interests  in  the  more  important 
matter !"  cried  Huntley  ;  "  I  warn  you  I  will  not  adopt  any 
such  bargain ;  better  ruin  now  than  any  sacrifice  either  of 
right  or  of  honor." 

"  For  what  do  you  take  me,  Mr.  Livingstone  ?"  said  the 
other,  coldly;  but  as  he  was  too  good-natured  and  much 
too  triumphant  to  keep  malice,  he  continued,  after  a  moment, 
in  his  usual  tone  : — u  Don't  be  foolish  ;  take  these  affairs 
and  burn  them — they're  better  out  of  harm's  way  ;  and  go 
in,  gather  the  family  together,  and  hold  a  council  ^  of  war. 
Now  I've  seen  the  man  and  understand  the  question,  I'm 


100  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

ready  to  fight  it  out.  We  can  but  take  our  chance.  You 
have  every  thing  in  your  favor — he  nothing  but  blood  and 
possession.  You  are  not  ruined,  Livingstone,  you  have 
enough  to  begin  with — I  am  inclined  to  change  my  advice  ; 
if  I  were  you,  I  should  wait  no  longer,  but  put  it  to  the 
touch.  The  chances  are  ten  to  one  in  your  favor." 

"  This  is  quite  different  from  your  former  opinion,"  said 
Iluntley,  in  amazement.  ^ 

"  Not  opinion,  say  advice,"  said  Cassilis,  who  was  now 
somewhat  excited ;  "  I  believed,  begging  your  pardon, 
Livingstone,  that  you  were  likely  to  need  for  your  own  im 
mediate  uses  every  penny  you  could  scrape  together ;  I 
thought  your  father  had  seriously  injured  your  cause  by 
taking  no  steps  in  the  matter,  and  that  the  other  side  might 
think  themselves  justified  in  saying  that  he  knew  this  will 
either  to  be  unfairly  got  or  invalid.  But  my  visit  to  Mel- 
mar  has  dispelled  these  doubts.  I  think  the  course  is  quite 
clear  if  you  choose  to  try." 

This  sudden  suggestion  took  away  Huntley's  breath  ;  the 
color  mounted  in  his  cheek  in  spite  of  himself — it  was  im 
possible  to  think  of  such  a  prospect  unmoved — for  Melmar, 
with  its  moderate  rank  and  easy  fortune,  was  very  much  more 
agreeable  to  think  of  than  the  bush  and  all  its  peradven- 
tures  of  hardship  and  solitude.  He  listened  with  only  a 
half-attention  while  Cassilis  explained  to  him  how  Mr. 
ftuntley  had  been  induced  to  relinquish  these  valuable 
scraps  of  paper.  The  whole  sum  represented  by  them  was 
aot  very  considerable,  but  it  made  all  the  difference  be 
tween  bare,  absolute  stripped  poverty,  and  the  enough  which 
would  satisfy  everybody's  demands,  and  leave  a  little  over 
for  themselves.  There  were  still  heavy  mortgages  upon 
the  little  property  of  Norlaw,  but  when  Iluntley  took  his 
father's  canceled  bonds  in  his  hand,  he  knew  there  was  no 
longer  cause  to  apprehend  a  forced  and  ruinous  sale  of  all 
their  stock  and  crop  and  little  possessions.  He  heard  the 
lawyer  speak  of  Melmar's  fears,  his  proposal  about  the  will 
— his  gradual  and  growing  apprehensions;  but  all  that  ap 
peared  visible  to  Huntley  was  the  fact  of  their  changed  cir 
cumstances,  and  the  new  position  in  which  the  family  stood. 
His  companion  perceived  after  a  while  that  the  young  man 
was  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
what  he  said,  and  Cassilis  wisely  left  him,  once  more  bid- 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW.  101 

ding  him  hold  a  council  of  war.  When  he  was  alone,  Hunt- 
ley  put  aside  his  memorandum-book,  drew  his  cap  over  his 
eyes,  and  set  off  on  a  rapid  walk  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  He 
scarcely  drew  breath  till  he  had  reached  the  summit  of  that 
fertile  slope  from  whence  he  could  just  see  in  the  distance 
the  gray  towers  of  Melrose  and  the  silvery  gleam  of  Tweed 
shining  in  the  hazy  golden  sunshine  beyond  the  purple 
Eildons.  The  broad  country  shone  before  him  in  all  its 
tints  of  color  and  glow  of  summer  light,  wide,  great,  and 
silent  as  the  life  upon  whose  brink  he  stood — and  at  his  feet 
lay  Norlaw,  with  its  humble  homestead  and  its  ruined  cas 
tle,  where  sat  this  lad's  mother,  who  was  a  widow.  He 
stood  there  perfectly  silent,  full  of  thought,  turning  over 
half  unconsciously  in  his  mind  the  words  of  his  adviser. 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  gain  or  lose  it  all." 

Somehow  these  lines  floated  in  upon  Huntley's  mind  as 
he  stood  gazing  upon  the  summer  landscape.  To  win  Mel- 
mar  with  all  its  wealth  and  influence,  or  to  lose  what  re 
mained  of  Norlaw,  with  all  the  associations  and  hereditary 
bonds  that  belonged  to  that  home  of  his  race — should  he 
put  it  to  the  touch  ?  A  conflict,  not  less  stormy  that  it 
was  entirely  unexpressed,  rose  within  the  young,  ambitious, 
eager  mind,  gazing  over  those  fields  and  hills.  A  certain 
personification  and  individuality  came  to  the  struggling 
powers  within  him.  On  either  side  stood  a  woman,  one  a 
pale,  unknown  shadow,  hovering  upon  the  chances  of  his 
triumph,  ready  to  take  the  prize,  when  it  was  won,  out  of 
his  hands — the  other  his  own  well-beloved,  home-dwelling 
mother,  whose  comfort  and  certain  habitation  it  was  in 
Huntley's  power  at  once  to  secure.  Should  he  put  it  to 
the  touch  ?  should  he  risk  all  that  he  might  win  all  ? — and 
the  tempters  that  assailed  Huntley  suddenly  vailed  over  to 
his  eyes  all  that  sunny  home  landscape,  and  spread  before 
him  the  savage  solitudes  of  the  far  country,  the  flocks  and 
the  herds  which  should  be  his  sole  companions — the  hut  in 
the  strange  woods ;  oh  beautiful  home  valleys,  glorious  hills, 
dear  gleams  of  water-springs !  oh,  love  hiding  sweet  among 
the  trees,  whispering  ere  it  comes !— oh  tender  friends  and 


102  THE    LAIED    OF    NOBLAW. 

bonds  of  youth  ! — shall  he  put  it  to  the  touch  ?  The  coun 
cil  of  war  held  its  debate  among  the  dust  and  din  of  battle, 
though  the  summer  sunshine  shone  all  the  time  in  an  un 
disturbed  and  peaceful  glory  upon  the  slope  of  Norlaw. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  bear  the  thought — me !"  cried 
the  Mistress  energetically ;  "  have  ye  kent  me  all  your 
days,  Huntley  Livingstone,  and  do  ye  dare  to  think  your 
mother  would  baulk  your  fortune  for  ease  to  hersel'  ?  is  it  like 
me  ?  would  any  mortal  even  me  with  the  like,  but  your 
ainsel'  ?» 

The  Mistress  stood  by  herself  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
with  her  hand  on  the  table — her  eyes  shone  with  a.  morti 
fied  and  grieved  fire  through  unshed  tears — her  heightened 
color — her  frame,  which  seemed  to  vibrate  with  a  visible 
pang — the  pain  of  unappreciated  love,  which  looked  like 
anger  in  her  face — showed  how  little  congenial  to  her  mind 
was  Huntley's  self-abnegation.  There  was  no  sacrifice  in 
the  world  which  she  herself  could  not  and  would  not  have 
made  for  her  children ;  but  to  feel  herself  the  person  for 
whom  a  sacrifice  was  needed,  a  hindrance  to  her  son's  pros 
pects,  a  person  to  be  provided  for,  struck  with  intense  and 
bitter  mortification  the  high  spirit  of  the  Mistress.  She 
could  not  be  content  with  this  subordinate  and  passive  posi 
tion.  Poverty,  labor,  want  itself,  would  have  come  easier 
to  her  proud,  tender  motherhood,  than  thus  to  feel  herself 
a  bar  upon  the  prospects  of  her  boy. 

When  Huntley  looked  into  his  mother's  face,  he  thanked 
God  silently  within  himself,  that  he  had  held  his  council  of 
war  upon  the  hill-side,  and  not  in  the  Norlaw  dining-parlor. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  the  young  man  had  made 
an  arbitrary  personal  decision,  taking  counsel  with  none ;  he 
had  been  naturally  somewhat  doubtful  in  his  statement  of  it, 
being  unused  to  such  independent  action — but  now  he  re 
joiced  that  he  had  made  his  conclusion  alone.  He  came  to 
his  mother  with  tenderness,  which  perhaps  if  it  touched  her 
secretly,  made  her  displeasure  only  the  greater  so  far  as  ap- 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  103 

pearance  went — for  the  mother  of  this  house,  who  was  not 
born  of  a  dependent  nature,  was  still  too  young  and  vigorous 
in  her  own  person,  and  too  little  accustomed  to  think  of  her 
sons  as  men,  to  be  able  to  receive  with  patience  the  new 
idea  that  their  relative  positions  were  so  far  changed,  and 
that  it  was  now  her  children's  part  to  provide  for  her,  in 
stead  of  hers  to  provide  for  them. 

"  Mother,  suppose  we  were  to  fail — which  is  as  likely  as 
success,"  said  Huntley,  "  and  I  had  to  go  away — after  all, 
should  you  like  me  to  leave  no  home  to  think  of — no  home 
to  return  to  ? — is  that  not  reason  enough  to  make  you  con 
tent  with  ISTorlaw  ?" 

"  Hold  your  peace !"  cried  the  Mistress — "  hame !  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  I  couldna  make  a  cothouse  in  Kirkbride, 
or  a  lodging  in  a  town  look  like  hame  to  my  own  bairns,  if 
Providence  ordained  it  sae, and  their  hearts  were  the  same? 
What's  four  walls  here  or  there  ? — till  you've  firesides  of 
your  ain,  your  mother's  your  hame  wherever  she  may  be. 
Am  I  a  weak  auld  wife  to  be  maintained  at  the  ingleside 
with  my  son's  toil — or  to  have  comfort,  or  fortune,  or  hope 
sacrificed  to  me  ?  Eh,  laddie,  Guid  forgive  ye ! — me  that 
would  shear  in  the  harvest  field,  or  guide  the  kye,  or  do  any 
day's  work  in  this  mortal  world,  with  a  cheerful  heart,  if  it 
was  needful,  for  the  sake  of  you !" 

"  Ay,  mother,"  cried  Cosmo,  suddenly  springing  up  from 
the  table  where  he  had  been  sitting  stooping  over  a  book  in 
his  usual  attitude,  without  any  apparent  notice  of  the  con 
versation.  "  Ay,  mother,"  cried  the  boy,  "  you  could  break 
your  heart,  and  wear  out  your  life  for  us,  because  it's  in 
your  nature — but  you're  too  proud  to  think  that  it's  our  na 
ture  as  well,  and  that  all  you  would  do  for  your  sons,  your 
sons  have  a  right  to  do  for  you !" 

The  boy's  pale  face  shone,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  ;  his  slen 
der,  tall,  overgrown  boyish  figure,  his  long  arms  stretching 
out  of  the  narrow  sleeves  of  his  jacket,  his  long  slender 
hands,  and  long  hair,  the  entire  and  extreme  youthfulness 
of  his  whole  appearance,  so  distinct  from  the  fuller  strength 
and  manhood  of  his  brothers,  and  animated  by  the  touch  of 
a  delicate  spirit,  less  sober  and  more  fervid  than  theirs, 
struck  strangely  and  suddenly  upon  the  two  who  had  hith 
erto  held  this  discussion  alone.  An  instantaneous  change 
came  over  the  Mistress's  face  ;  the  fire  in  her  eyes  melted 


104  THE    LAIRD    OF 

into  a  tender  effusion  of  love  and  sorrow,  the  yearning  of 
the  mother  who  was  a  widow.  Those  tears,  which  her 
proud  temper  and  independent  spirit  had  drawn  into  her 
eyes,  fell  with  a  softness  which  their  original  cause  was  quite 
incapable  of.  She  could  not  keep  to  her  first  emotions  ;  she 
could  not  restrain  the  expansion  of  her  heart  toward  the 
boy  who  was  still  only  a  boy,  and  his  father's  son. 

"My  bairn!"  cried  the  Mistress,  with  a  short  sob.  He 
was  the  youngest,  the  tenderest,  the  most  like  him  who  was 
gone — and  Cosmo's  words  had  an  unspeakable  pathos  in 
their  enthusiasm — the  heroism  of  a  child ! 

After  this  the  mother  dropped  into  her  chair,  altogether 
softened,  while  Huntley  spoke  to  her  low  and  earnestly. 

"Melmar  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  her  eldest  son,  in  the 
half- whispered  forcible  words  which  Cosmo  did  not  hear,  but 
in  which  his  mother  recognized  the  distinct  resolution  of  a 
nature  as  firm  as  her  own ;  "  nothing  at  least  except  a  chance 
of  wealth  and  fortune — only  a  chance  which  can  wait ;  but 
Norlaw  is  every  thing — house,  family,  ancestors,  every  thing 
that  makes  me  proud  of  my  name.  Norlaw  and  the  Liv 
ingstones  must  never  be  disconnected  while  we  can  prevent 
it — and,  mother,  for  Cosmo's  sake!" 

"  Eh,  Huntley,  God  forgive  me  if  I  set  more  weight  upon 
him  than  I  should  set !"  said  the  Mistress,  with  tears  ;  "  no' 
to  your  detriment,  my  own  son ;  but  look  at  the  bairn  !  is 
he  not  his  very  image  that's  gane  ?" 

Not  a  single  shadow  of  envy  or  displeasure  crossed  Hunt- 
ley's  face ;  he  stood  looking  at  his  young  brother  with  a  love 
almost  as  tender  as  their  mother's,  with  besides  an  uncon 
scious  swell  of  manhood  and  power  in  his  own  frame.  He 
was  the  eldest  brother,  the  head  of  the  house,  and  the  purest 
saint  on  earth  could  not  have  condemned  the  generous  pride 
which  rose  in  Huntley's  breast.  It  was  not  a  weak  effusion 
of  sentimental  self-sacrifice — his  own  hopes,  his  own  heart, 
his  own  life,  were  strong  with  an  individual  identity  in  the 
young  man's  nature.  But  the  tender  son  of  this  house  for 
the  first  time  had  made  his  own  authoritative  and  masterly 
decision.  To  set  aside  his  ambition  and  let  it  wait — to  post 
pone  fortune  to  labor — to  do  the  first  duty  of  a  man  on  his 
own  sole  and  unadvised  responsibility — to  provide  for  those 
of  his  own  house,  and  set  them  above  the  anxieties  of  pov 
erty.  He  was  proud,  when  he  thought  of  it,  to  feel  the 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  105 

strength  in  his  own  arm,  the  vigor  of  his  own  step — but  the 
pride  was  such  as  almost  an  angel  might  have  shared. 

When  Huntley  left  the  room,  the  Mistress  called  Cosmo 
to  her  side.  She  had  resumed  her  seat  by  the  corner  win 
dow,  and  they  could  see  him  going  out,  disappearing  behind 
the  old  castle  walls,  in  the  glory  of  the  autumn  sunset. 

"  Do  you  see  him,  Cosmo ?"  said  the  Mistress,  with  renewed 
tears,  which  this  time  were  of  mingled  pride  and  tender 
ness  ;  "  I  resisted,  but  I  never  wronged  his  thoughts.  Do 
ye  see  your  brother  ?  Yonder  he  is,  a  young  lad,  proud, 
and  bold,  and  masterful — he's  no'  like  you — he  has  it  in  his 
heart  to  seek  power,  and  riches,  and  honors,  and  to  take 
pleasure  in  them — and  he's  that  daring  that  the  chance  of  a 
battle  would  be  more  pleasant  to  Huntley  than  any  thing  in 
this  world  that  was  secure.  Yet — do  you  hear  me,  laddie  ? 
he's  put  them  all  aside,  every  ane,  for  the  sake  of  this  hame 
and  name,  and  for  you  and  me  !" 

And  the  color  rose  high  upon  the  Mistress's  cheek  in  a 
flush  of  triumph  ;  the  necessity  and  blessing  of  women  came 
upon  her  in  a  sudden  flood — she  could  not  be  heroic  herself, 
though  she  might  covet  the  glory — but  with  a  higher,  ten 
derer,  more  delicious  pride,  she  could  rejoice  and  triumph 
in  the  courage  of  her  boy.  Her  voice  rose  even  in  those 
restrained  and  moderate  words  of  common  speech  as  if  in  a 
song ;  there  was  an  indescribable  something  in  her  tone 
which  reminded  one  involuntarily  of  the  old  songs  of  Scrip 
ture,  the  old  triumphant  Hebrew  parallelisms  of  Miriam  and 
Deborah.  She  grasped  Cosmo's  shoulder  with  an  emphatic 
pressure,  and  pointed  with  the  other  hand  to  the  retiring 
figure  of  Huntley,  passing  slowly  and  with  a  thoughtful  step 
by  the  wall  of  the  old  castle.  Cosmo  leaned  out  beside  her, 
catching  a  flush  upon  his  delicate  cheek  from  hers,  but  gaz 
ing  upon  the  scene  with  a  different  eye.  Insensibly  the 
poetic  glance  of  the  boy  left  his  brother,  to  dwell  upon  the 
other  features  of  this  picture  before  him.  Those  stern  old 
walls  with  their  windowless  sockets,  through  which  once  the 
sunshine  shone  and  the  summer  breezes  entered  to  former 
generations  of  their  name — that  sweet  evening  glory  of 
sunshine,  pouring  aslant  in  a  lingering  tender  flood  upon  the 
world  and  the  day,  which  it  seemed  sad  to  leave — that  sun 
shine  which  never  grew  old — insensibly  his  own  romance 
stole  back  into  Cosmo's  mind.  He  forgot,  with  the  inadver- 
5* 


106  THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW. 

tence  of  his  years,  that  it  was  not  a  romance  agreeable  to 
his  mother,  or  that,  even  if  it  had  been,  she  was  not  of  a 
temper  to  bear  the  intrusion  of  other  subjects  when  her  mind 
was  so  fully  occupied  with  concerns  of  her  own. 

"  Mother,  Huntley  is  right,"  cried  Cosmo ;  "  Melrnar 
can  not  be  his  if  she  is  alive— it  would  not  become  him  to 
seek  it  till  he  has  sought  her — and  as  Huntley  can  not  seek 
her,  for  her  sake  and  for  my  father's,  I  will,  though  it 
should  take  the  half  of  my  life!" 

Once  more  the  Mistress's  face  changed ;  a  glance  of  fiery 
impatience  flashed  from  her  eyes,  her  cheek  grew  violently 
red,  the  tears  dried  as  if  by  a  spell,  and  she  put  Cosmo 
away  hastily  with  the  same  arm  which  had  held  him. 

"  Get  away  to  your  plays,  bairn — dinna  trouble  me !" 
cried  the  Mistress,  with  a  harsh  contempt,  which  was  as 
strong  as  it  was  unjust;  "to  think  I  should  open  my 
heart  to  you  that  thinks  of  nothing  but  your  romances  and 
story  books  !  Go !  I've  different  things  to  think  of — dinna 
trouble  me !" 

And  she  rose  with  a  murmur  of  indignation  and  anger, 
and  went  hurriedly,  with  a  flushed  cheek,  to  seek  her  usual 
work,  and  take  refuge  in  occupation.  If  the  lost  heiress 
had  been  her  dearest  friend,  she  would  still  have  resented 
urgently  the  introduction  of  an  intruder  into  her  sudden 
burst  of  mother-pride.  As  it  was,  it  overturned  temper 
and  patience  entirely.  She  brushed  past  Cosmo  with  a 
hasty  contempt,  which  humiliated  and  mortified  the  boy 
beyond  expression.  He  did  not  attempt  to  justify  himself — 
perhaps  a  kindred  spark  of  resentment,  and  the  bitterness 
with  which  youth  appreciates  injustice,  helped  to  silence 
him — but  when  his  mother  resumed  her  seat  and  worked 
on  hurriedly  in  a  disdainful  and  angry  silence,  Cosmo  with 
drew  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house  with  a  swelling 
heart.  Too  proud  to  betray  how  much  he  was  wounded, 
he  stole  round  behind  the  farm  offices  to  his  favorite  perch 
among  the  ruins,  where  the  lad  brooded  in  mournful  mood, 
sinking  into  the  despairing  despondency  of  his  years  and 
temperament,  feeling  himself  misunderstood  and  unappre 
ciated,  and  meditating  a  hundred  melancholy  heroisms. 
Mary  of  Melmar,  so  far,  seemed  as  little  propitious  to 
Norlaw's  son  as  she  had  once  been  to  Nor!  aw. 


THE    LAIED    OP    NOELAW.  107 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"Go  wherever  you  like,  bairns,  or  travel  straight  on,  if 
you  please — I  canna  see  a  step  before  me,  for  my  part — it's 
you  and  no'  me  that  must  take  the  lead,"  said  the  Mistress, 
with  a  heavy  sigh.  These  words  were  said  as  the  little  party, 
Huntley,  Patrick  and  herself,  were  left  standing  by  a  little 
pile  of  luggage,  in  the  dusk  of  a  harvest  evening,  in  front 
of  the  coach  office  on  the  Edinburgh  pavement.  They  were 
on  their  way  to  Liverpool,  from  which  place  Huntley  was 
to  sail  in  an  emigrant  ship  for  Port  Philip.  Princes  Street 
was  full  of  the  open-air  and  street-loving  crowd  which 
gives  to  that  splendid  promenade,  on  summer  nights,  so 
much  of  a  continental  aspect.  The  dusk  of  the  twilight  fell 
softly  in  the  valley  which  lay  behind,  the  lights  in  the 
high  houses  on  the  other  side  hung  softly  midway  in  the 
air,  the  voices  of  the  passengers,  and  sounds  of  the  city, 
though  doubtless  many  of  these  were  sad  enough,  mingled 
in  the  soft-shadowed  air  to  a  harmonious  hum  of  pleasant 
sound,  which  echoed  with  a  mocking  gayety  into  the  heavy 
heart  of  the  mother  who  was  about  to  part  with  her  boys. 
She  was  bewildered  for  the  moment  with  her  journey,  with 
the  unknown  place  and  unusual  animation  around  her,  and 
it  was  only  very  slowly  and  by  degrees  that  her  mind 
regained  its  usual  self-possession.  She  stood  gazing  blankly 
round  her,  while  the  boys  made  arrangements  about  their 
superfluous  packages,  which  were  to  be  left  at  the  coach 
office,  and  finally  came  up  to  her,  carrying  between  them 
the  little  trunk  which  contained  the  necessaries  for  their 
journey.  Cabs  were  not  in  those  days,  and  the  Mistress 
would  have  been  horrified  into  perfect  self-possession  by  the 
preposterous  idea  of  "a  noddy."  When  they  were  thus 
far  ready,  she  turned  with  them  briskly  enough,  leading 
the  way  without  any  uncertainty,  for,  in  spite  of  her  excla 
mation,  it  had  been  already  arranged  where  they  were  to 
go,  and  the  Mistress  had  been  at  school  in  Edinburgh  ^  in 
her  young  days,  and  was  by  no  means  unacquainted  with 
the  town.  They  went  along  in  this  order— Mrs.  Livingstone 
carrying  a  considerable  bag  on  her  own  arm,  and  the  young 


108  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOKLAW. 

men  with  a  trunk  between  them — across  the  North  Bridge 
towards  the  old  town,  that  scene  of  magic  to  every  stranger ; 
the  valley,  the  hill,  the  dim  gray  turrets  of  Holy  rood,  the 
soft  darkness  of  the  night  full  of  sounds,  lying  beneath 
them — the  rugged  outline,  picturesque  and  noble,  of  the 
lofty  old  street  before — the  lights  shining  here  and  there 
like  fairy  stars  in  irregular  specks  among  the  high  windows, 
and  everywhere  the  half-seen,  unrecognizable  throng  of 
wayfarers,  and  the  world  of  subdued  sound  on  every  side 
made  but  small  impression  upon  the  absorbed  minds  of  the 
little  party.  They  knew  it  all  before,  and  their  thoughts 
were  otherwise  occupied ;  yet  involuntarily  that  noble  land 
scape,  which  no  one  could  look  upon  with  absolute  indiffer 
ence,  soothed  them  all,  in  spite  of  themselves.  Their  des 
tination  was  the  High  Street,  where,  in  one  of  the  more 
respectable  closes,  and  at  the  top  of  an  interminable  ascent 
of  stairs,  there  lived  a  native  of  Kirkbride,  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  letting  lodgings  to  students,  and  with  whom  they 
were  to  find  accommodation  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Purdie 
gave  to  the  Mistress  a  little  room  boasting  a  "  concealed 
bed,"  that  is  to  say,  a  recess  shut  in  by  folding-doors,  and 
just  large  enough  to  contain  a  bedstead,  and  to  the  lads  a 
bed-closet,  with  a  borrowed  light,  both  of  which  inventions 
specially  belong  to  the  economy  of  flats  and  great  subdi 
vided  houses,  and  are  the  most  unfavorable  features  in 
the  same.  But  the  window  of  Mrs.  Livingstone's  room, 
where  they  had  tea,  looked  abroad  over  that  great  pano 
rama,  bounded  by  the  gleam  of  the  Frith,  and  the  low 
green  line  of  the  Fife  hills,  which  makes  it  worth  while  to 
ascend  stairs  and  watch  at  lofty  windows  in  Edinburgh. 
The  yellow  harvest  moon  had  risen  ere  they  had  finished 
the  simple  meal,  which  none  of  them  had  any  heart  for, 
and  lluntley  drew  his  mother  to  the  window  to  bid  her 
look  at  the  wonderful  broad  moonlight  lying  white  upon 
the  long  line  of  street  below,  and  thrusting  out  all  the 
monuments  of  the  little  hill  into  bold  and  striking  relief 
against  the  luminous  sky.  The  Mistress  turned  away  from 
the  window,  with  big  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Eh,  Huntley,  laddie,  what  do  I  care  ?  if  it  was  the 
grandest  view  that  ever  was,  do  you  think  I  could  see  it  ?" 
cried  his  mother,  "  when  I  ken  that  I'll  never  see  the  light 
of  the  moon  mair  without  weary  thoughts  and  yearning  to 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NORLAW.  109 

where  my  bairns  are,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  me  !" 

"  But,  mother,  only  till  we  come  home,"  said  Huntley, 
with  his  arm  round  his  mother,  speaking  low  in  her  ear. 

The  Mistress  only  turned  towards  the  dim  little  table, 
with  its  dim  candles,  hurriedly  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.  This  was  endurable — but  the  night  and  the  calm,  and 
the  glory  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  were  too  much  for 
the  mother.  If  she  had  remained  there  looking  out,  it 
almost  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  have  wept  her  very 
heart  dry. 

The  next  morning  they  set  out  once  more  upon  their 
journey — another  day's  travel  by  the  canal  to  Glasgow. 
The  canal  was  not  to  be  despised  in  those  days ;  it  was  cheaper, 
and  it  was  not  a  great  deal  slower  than  the  coach ;  and  if 
the  errand  had  been  happier,  the  mode  of  traveling,  in  that 
lovely  harvest  weather,  with  its  gradual  glide  and  noiseless 
progress,  was  by  no  means  an  unpleasant  one.  Glasgow  it 
self,  a  strange,  unknown,  smoky  Babel,  where,  after  Hunt- 
ley  was  gone,  the  Mistress  was  to  part  with  her  second  son, 
bewildered  her  mind  completely  with  its  first  aspect ;  she 
could  make  nothing  of  it  as  they  pursued  their  way  from 
the  canal  to  the  river,  through  a  maze  of  perplexing  and 
noisy  streets,  where  she  felt  assured  hundreds  of  people 
might  lose  themselves,  never  to  be  found  again.  And,  with 
a  feeling  half  of  awe  and  half  of  disgust,  Mrs.  Livingstone 
contemplated  the  place,  so  unlike  the  only  other  large  town 
she  knew,  where  Patie  was  to  pass  the  next  half  dozen 
years  of  his  life.  Instinctively  she  caught  closer  hold  of  him, 
forgettingHuntley  for  the  moment — Huntley's  dangers  would 
be  those  of  nature,  the  sea  and  the  wilderness — but  temp 
tation  !  ill-doing !  The  Mistress  grasped  her  son's  sleeve 
with  tenacious  fingers,  and  looked  into  his  face  with  half  an 
entreaty,  half  a  defiance. 

"  If  I  should  ever  see  the  like  of  that  in  a  bairn  of  mine !" 
she  cried  aloud,  as  they  passed  a  corner  where  stood  some  of 
those  precocious  men,  haggard  and  aged  beyond  double 
their  years,  whom  it  is  the  misfortune  of  a  great  town  some 
times  to  produce.  The  idea  struck  her  with  an  impatient 
dread  which  overcame  even  her  half-apprehensive  curiosity 
about  the  voyage  they  were  going  to  undertake ;  and  she 
had  scarcely  overcome  this  sudden  alarm,  when  they  em- 


110  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

barked  in  the  snorting  steamer  which  was  to  convey  them  to 
Liverpool.  Standing  on  the  deck,  surrounded  by  the  pile 
of  boxes  which  formed  Huntley's  equipment,  and  looking; 
with  startled  and  disapproving  eyes  upon  the  arriving  pas 
sengers,  and  the  crowded  sheds  of  the  Brooinielaw,  the 
Mistress  saw  the  same  moon  rising  above  the  masts,  and 
housetops,  and  smoke  of  Glasgow,  without  any  thing  like 
the  same  feelings  which  had  moved  her  on  the  previous 
night.  Her  mind  was  excited,  her  active  spirit  stirred,  her 
very  nerves,  steady  as  they  were,  influenced  a  little  by  the 
entirely  new  anticipation  of  the  voyage  ;  a  night  at  sea ! — 
it  seemed  almost  as  great  looking  forward  to  it  as  Huntley's 
journey,  though  that  was  to  the  other  end  of  the  world. 

And  so  they  glided  down  the  beautiful  Clyde,  the  breeze 
freshening  about  them,  as  hills  began  to  rise  black  in  the 
moonlight,  and  little  towns  to  glimmer  on  the  water's  edge. 
The  mother  and  the  sons  walked  about  the  deck  together, 
talking  earnestly,  and  when  the  vessel  rose  upon  the  bigger 
waves,  as  they  stole  out  to  sea,  and  every  thing  but  the  water 
and  the  sky,  and  the  moonlight,  gradually  sank  out  of  sight,  the 
Mistress,  with  a  little  thrill  of  danger  and  adventure  at  her 
heart,  forgot  for  the  moment  how,  presently,  she  should  return 
alone  by  the  same  road,  and  almost  could  suppose  that  she 
was  setting  out  with  Huntley.  The  fancy  restored  her  to 
herself:  she  was  not  much  of  an  advice  giver.  Her  very 
cautions  and  counsels,  perhaps,  were  arbitrary  and  slightly 
impatient,  like  her  nature  ;  but  she  was  their  true  mother, 
heart  and  soul ;  and  the  lads  did  not  forget  for  long  years 
after  what  the  Mistress  said  as  she  paced  about  the  deck 
between  them,  with  a  firm,  yet  sometimes  uncertain  foot,  as 
the  midnight  glided  into  morning,  and  the  river  disappeared 
in  the  bigger  waters  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTEK    XXIII. 

THE  voyage,  as  it  happened,  was  a  very  favorable  one — 
even  the  Mistress's  inland  terrors  were  scarcely  aroused 
by  the  swell  of  that  summer  sea ;  and  Huntley  himself, 
though  his  ideas  expanded  to  a  much  longer  journey,  un- 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  Hi 

consciously  took  it  as  a  good  omen  that  his  first  night  at 
sea  should  be  so  calm  and  fair.  They  came  into  the  great 
seaport  late  on  another  summer  evening.  It  was  not  nearly 
so  extensive  then  as  it  is  now,  but  still  the  masts  were  in 
forests,  the  ships  in  navies ;  and  their  inexperienced  eyes, 
unenlightened  by  the  hasty  and  darkling  glimpse  of  the 
Clyde,  and  knowing  nothing  greater  or  busier  than  the 
Forth,  with  its  great  bosom  diversified  by  an  island  and 
a  sail,  the  one  scarcely  more  plentiful  than  the  other, 
opened  wide  with  amazement  at  the  fleet  of  vessels  in  the 
Mersey.  Insensibly  to  herself,  the  Mistress  drew  a  certain 
comfort  from  the  fact,  as  the  Glasgow  steamer  went  gliding 
up  the  river,  in  the  late  summer  sunset.  Ships  were  moored 
in  the  deep  calm  and  shadow  of  the  banks ;  ships  were 
coming  and  going  in  the  mid  waters  of  the  river,  and  lines 
of  spars  and  masts,  indistinguishable  and  without  number, 
fringed  the  whole  water  edge,  from  Avhich  the  smoke  of  the 
town,  reddened  by  a  last  ray  of  sunshine,  rose  inland,  out  of 
sight,  in  a  great  overhanging  cloud.  The  sight  of  such  a 
throng  brought  a  momentary  comfort  to  the  heart  of  Hunt- 
ley's  mother.  The  very  sea,  it  almost  seemed,  could  not  be 
so  lonely,  when  all  these  big  wayfarers,  and  thousands  more, 
were  tracking  its  waters  day  by  day. 

"  Mony  a  mother's  son  is  there,"  she  said  to  herself  softly, 
as  she  stood  gazing  about  her — and  even  the  community  of 
hardship  had  a  solace  in  it.  As  the  steamboat  puffed  and 
snorted  to  its  destination,  a  big  ship,  crowded  with  pensive 
faces,  bare  of  sails,  and  tugged  along  by  a  little  steamer, 
came  lumbering  silently  along  through  the  peaceful  evening 
light,  going  out  to  sea.  Two  or  three  voices  round  an 
nounced  it  "  an  emigrant  ship,"  and  the  Mistress  gazed  into 
it  and  after  it,  clasping  her  son's  arm  with  a  thrill  at  her 
heart.  Evening;  the  sweet  daylight  fading  into  a  charmed 
and  tender  twilight — the  sky  growing  pale  with  very  calm ; 
the  houses  and  churches  and  piles  of  buildings  beginning  to 
stand  out  black  against  the  colorless,  mysterious  light  which 
casts  no  shadows ;  the  water  gleaming  in  long,  still  ripples, 
as  pale  as  the  sky — every  thing  softening  and  darkening  into 
natural  rest — yet,  through  all,  the  great  ship  departing 
silently,  with  her  throng  of  travelers,  beginning  to  unfold 
the  sails  of  her  wayfaring,  beginning  to  vibrate  to  the 
quickening  wave,  as  she  neared  the  sea. 


112  THE    LAJED    OF    NOELAW. 

"  God  go  with  them  !"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  sob  out 
of  her  full  heart.  "  Oh,  Huntley,  laddie !  mony  a  mother's 
son  is  there !" 

The  landing,  when  they  came  to  it ;  the  rush  of  porters 
and  vagabonds  from  the  pier;  the  half  light,  in  which  it 
seemed  doubly  necessary  to  the  Mistress,  roused  into  prompt 
and  vigorous  self-defense,  to  keep  the  most  vigilant  watch 
on  the  luggage — and  the  confusion  with  which  both  mother 
and  sons  contemplated  the  screaming,  shouting  crowd  who 
surrounded  them  wTith  offers  of  service,  and  bawled  to  them 
from  the  shore,  made  altogether  a  very  serious  business  of 
the  arrival.  The  Mistress  never  knew  how  she  came  through 
that  ordeal;  the  "English  tongue,"  which  had  a  decidedly 
Irish  brogue  in  that  scene,  and  under  these  circumstances, 
deafened  the  rural  Scottish  woman.  The  crowd  of  spectators, 
and  the  foray  upon  everybody's  luggage  made  by  some  scores 
of  ragged  fellows,  whom  her  uncharitable  imagination  set 
down  as  robbers  or  madmen,  filled  her  with  indignation  and 
a  strong  propensity  to  resistance ;  and  it  was  not  till  she 
found  herself  safely  deposited  in  an  odd  little  sitting-room 
of  a  little  inn,  close  to  the  docks,  with  all  her  packages  safe 
and  undiminished,  that  a  measure  of  calmness  returned  to 
the  ruffled  bosom  of  Mrs.  Livingstone.  Then,  after  they 
had  rested  and  refreshed  themselves,  Huntley  and  Patrick 
went  out  with  natural  curiosity  to  see  the  new  scene  and  the 
new  country — for  the  whole  party  fully  considered  that  it 
was  "  England,"  not  Liverpool,  in  which  they  now  found 
themselves — and  the  Mistress  was  left  alone.  She  sat  in  the 
little  parlor  under  the  unfamiliar  gas-light,  looking  round 
with  forlorn  eyes  upon  the  room.  There  was  a  little  model 
of  a  ship  upon  the  mantel-piece  in  front  of  the  little  mirror, 
and  another  upon  a  small  side-table  under  the  barometer ; 
other  odd  little  ornaments,  such  as  sailors  bring  home,  shells 
and  curious  boxes,  and  little  painted  glass  cups  of  Dutch  art, 
gave  a  very  nautical  aspect  to  the  shabby  apartment,  which, 
further,  bore  traces  of  having  recently  been  smoked  in,  which 
disgusted  the  Mistress.  Then  all  the  noises  of  a  noisy  and 
not  very  well-behaved  quarter  seemed  to  rise  up  to  her  win 
dow,  mingled  with  ajar  of  music  from  a  big  blazing  drink- 
ing-place,  almost  next  door — and  the  private  tumult  of  the 
inn  itself,  voices  and  footsteps,  shutting  of  doors  and  ringing 
of  bells,  still  further  oppressed  the  solitary  stranger. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOELAW.  113 

"  Mercy  on  me !  is  that  what  they  ca>  speaking  English  ?" 
cried  the  Mistress  to  herself,  disturbed,  lonely,  sick  at  heart, 
and  almost  offended  with  her  sons  for  leaving  her.  She  put 
her  hands  to  her  ears  with  a  gesture  of  disdain ;  the  un 
familiar  accent  was  quite  an  aggravation  and  insult  to  her 
solitude — and  then  her  thoughts  "settled  down  upon  the  cir 
cumstances  which  brought  her  here.  But  a  day  or  two 
more,  and  she  might  never  see  Huntley  again. 

Meanwhile  the  boys  were  straying  through  the  mean,  noisy 
streets,  blazing  with  light,  which  only  showed  their  squalor 
the  more,  where  a  whole  disreputable  population  seemed  to 
be  exerting  all  its  arts  for  the  fascination  of  the  sailors,  who 
were  the  patrons  and  support  of  all  this  quarter.  It  was 
quite  a  new  phase  of  life  to  the  lads,  fresh  from  their  rural 
solitudes,  and  all  the  proprieties  of  a  respectable  Scottish 
family — but  the  novelty  beguiled  them  on,  though  it  dis 
gusted  them.  They  went  wandering  about,  curious,  aston 
ished,  revolted,  till  they  found  themselves  among  dark  mazes 
of  warehouses  from  which  it  was  not  easy  to  find  their  way 
back.  When  they  did  get  back  it  was  late,  though  the  noise 
remained  imdiminished,  and  the  Mistress's  temper  was  not 
improved,  if  truth  must  be  told,  by  her  solitude.  She  had 
been  trying  to  look  out  from  the  window,  where  opposite 
there  was  nothing  but  the  high  brick  walls  of  the  docks,  and 
beneath,  upon  the  lighted  pavement,  only  such  scenes  as  hor 
rified  the  soul  of  the  Mistress  within  her. 

"  It's  a  marvel  to  me  what  pleasure  even  thoughtless  lad 
dies  could  find  wandering  about  a  place  like  that,"  said  the 
Mistress  ;  "  England,  quotha  !  I  thought  mysel'  there  must 
be  something  worth  seeing  in  a  place  that  folk  make  such  a. 
vvark  about ;  but  instead  of  that,  it's  waur  than  the  Cow- 
gate  ;  pity  me !  and  sharp  tongues  that  gang  through  my 
head  like  a  bell !" 

"  But  Liverpool  is  not  England,"  said  Huntley,  coming  to 
a  slow  perception  of  that  fact,  and  laughing  at  himself  as  he 
said  it. 

"  And  maybe  this  is  not  Liverpool,"  said  Patie,  with  still 
greater  enlightenment. 

"  Hold  your  peace,  bairns,"  cried  the  Mistress,  perempto 
rily  ;  "  what  can  you  ken,  twa  laddies  that  have  no  more  in 
sight  into  life  than  babes  unborn— how  can  the  like  of  you 
tell  ?  Do  I  no'  see  sin  outbye  there  with  a  painted  face,  and 


114  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

sounds  of  fiddling  and  laughing,  and  light  enough  to  burn 
up  the  haill  town  ?  Eh,  bairns,  if  ever  ye  touch  such  dirt 
with  but  the  ends  of  your  fingers,  the  mother  that  bore  ye 
will  think  shame  of  ye — burning  shame !  It  sounds  like 
pleasure— do  ye  hear  ? — but  it's  no  pleasure,  it's  destruc 
tion  ! — and  I  canna  tell,  for  my  ain  part,  how  a  decent 
woman  can  daur  to  close  her  e'en,  kenning  what  evil's  nigh. 
But  I'm  no'  meaning  that  for  you,"  added  the  Mistress, 
changing  her  tone ;  "  the  like  of  you  young  things  need 
sleep  and  rest,  and  though  I  canna  tell  where  we're  to  get 
the  things  we  want  in  a  miserable  place  like  this,  we'll  have 
to  be  stirring  early  the  morn." 

"And  we'll  find  a  better  place,"  said  Huntley ;  "  don't  be 
afraid,  mother — but  for  that  and  all  the  rest  that  we  have 
to  do  and  to  bear,  you  must  try  to  rest  yourself." 

"Aye,  laddie,"  said  the  Mistress,  hurriedly  wiping  her 
eyes,  "  but  I  canna  get  my  thoughts  out  of  that  ship  that's 
on  the  sea  this  nicht !  and  maybe  mony  a  lone  woman  sit 
ting  still  with  nae  sons  to  come  in  to  her — and  whiles  I 
canna  but  mind  what's  coming  to  niysel'." 

"  I  am  only  twenty,  mother,  and  Patie  but  eighteen," 
said  Huntley ;  "  would  you  like  us  to  remain  as  we  are, 
knowing  nothing  of  life,  as  you  say  ?  or  are  you  afraid  to 
trust  your  sons  in  the  battle,  like  other  men  ?" 

"  Na  !  no'  me !"  cried  the  Mistress  ;  "  you're  baith  right, 
and  I  approve  in  my  mind — but  only  just  this,  bairns  ;— - I'm 
your  mother — and  yon  ship  is  sailing  in  the  dark  before  my 
very  e'en,  as  plain  as  if  I  saw  her  now !" 

And  whether  it  was  thinking  of  that  ship,  or  of  the  sons 
of  other  mothers  who  were  errant  in  her,  or  of  her  own  boy, 
so  soon  to  join  their  journey,  the  Mistress  heard  the  last 
sound  that  disturbed  the  house  that  night,  and  the  earliest 
in  the  morning.  Her  eyes  were  dry  and  sore  when  she  got 
up  to  see  the  daylight  aspect  of  the  unknown  and  unlovely 
world  around  her  ;  and  the  lads  were  still  fast  asleep  in  their 
privilege  of  youth,  while  their  mother  stood  once  more 
wistfully  looking  out  upon  the  high  black  wall  of  the  dock, 
and  the  masts  appearing  over  it  She  could  not  see  the 
river,  or  any  thing  more  gracious  than  this  seaman-tempting 
street.  There  was  nothing  either  within  or  without  to  divert 
her  from  her  own  thoughts ;  arid  as  she  watched  the  early 
sunshine  brighten  upon  a  scene  so  different  from  that  of 


THE     LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  115 

her  own  hills  and   streams,  these  thoughts  were  forlorn 
enough. 

During  the  day,  the  little  party  went  out  to  make  some 
last  purchases  for  Huntley.  The  young  man  was  to  carry 
with  him,  in  the  securest  form  which  they  could  think  of,  a 
little  fortune  of  a  hundred  pounds,  on  which  he  was  to  make 
his  start  in  the  world,  nothing  doubting  to  find  in  it  a 
nucleus  of  wealth ;  and  the  Mistress,  spite  of  the  natural 
economy  of  her  ideas,  and  her  long  habit  of  frugality,  was 
extravagant  and  lavish  in  her  anxiety  to  get  every  thing  for 
Huntley  that  he  could  or  might  require.  When  they  came 
into  the  region  of  shops,  she  began  to  drop  behind,  anxiously 
studying  the  windows,  tempted  by  many  a  possible  conve 
nience,  which,  if  she  had  acted  on  her  first  impulse  and  pur 
chased  each  incontinently,  would  have  made  Huntley's  outfit 
an  unbelievable  accumulation  of  peddlery. 

As  it  was,  his  mother's  care  and  inexperience  freighted 
the  young  man  with  a  considerable  burden  of  elaborate  con 
veniences — cumbrous  machines  of  various  forms,  warranted 
invaluable  for  the  voyage  or  for  the  bush,  which  Huntley 
lugged  about  with  many  a  year  after,  and  tried  to  use  for 
his  mother's  sake.  When  they  got  back  to  their  inn,  the 
Mistress  had  suffered  herself  to  be  convinced  that  the  noisy 
street  outside  the  docks  was  not  Liverpool,  much  less  Eng 
land.  But  the  "  English  tongue,"  which  "  rang  through  her 
head  like  a  knife,"  to  vary  the  image — the  mean  brick  houses 
at  which  the  triumphant  Scotchwoman  pointed  her  finger 
with  unspeakable  contempt,  the  narrow  streets,  and  noise 
and  dust  of  the  great  commercial  town,  filled  her  patriotic 
spirit  with  a  disdainful  complacency. 

"  Weel,  laddies,"  said!  Mrs.  Livingstone,  when  they  reached 
the  inn,  very  tired,  that  night ;  and  the  Mistress  spoke  with 
the  natural  satisfaction  of  a  traveled  person ;  "  I  have  aye 
heard  a  great  wark  made  about  England — but  I'm  very  sure, 
now  that  we've  been  in  it,  and  seen  for  ourselves,  none  of  us 
desires  to  gang  any  further.  Bits  of  brick  houses  that  you 
can  mostly  see  through ! — streets  that  neighbors  could  shake 
hands  across ! — and  for  my  part,  ilka  time  I  hear  them  speak, 
I  think  they're  flyting.  Eh,  bairns,  such  sharp  tongues  !  I 
wouldna  gie  Melrose  though  it's  wee-er  and  hasna  sae  mony 
shops,  for  twenty  of  this  place — and  as  for  Edinburgh — !" 

But  the  contrast  was  unspeakable,  and  took  away  the 
Mistress's  breath. 


116  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THEY  were  detained  for  some  days  waiting  the  sailing  of 
the  ship,  which  already  the  little  party  had  gone  over,  the 
Mistress  with  awe  and  solemnity,  the  brothers  with  eager 
interest  and  excitement,  more  than  once.  The  bark 
Flora,  Captain  Gardner  master,  bound  for  Port  Philip — 
through  those  days  and  nights  of  suspense,  when  they  hoped 
and  feared  every  morning  to  hear  that  this  was  the  last  day, 
this  name  might  have  been  heard  even  among  the  dreams 
of  Huntley's  mother.  Yet  this  procrastination  of  the  parting 
was  not  good  even  for  her.  She  said  her  farewell  a  hundred 
times  in  the  bitterness  of  imagination  before  the  real  moment 
came,  and  as  they  all  went  down  every  morning  early  to 
one  of  the  piers,  opposite  to  which  in  the  river  the  Flora 
lay,  and  made  a  mournful,  anxious  promenade  up  and  down, 
gazing  at  the  anchored  ship,  with  her  bare  cordage,  the  emi 
grant  encampments  on  her  big  deck,  and  the  fresh  vegetables 
strung  in  her  bows,  noting  with  sharp  and  solicitous  eyes  any 
signs  of  preparation  there,  the  pain  of  parting  was  indefinitely 
repeated,  though  always  with  a  pang  of  joy  at  the  end — 
another  day.  However,  even  emigrant  ships  have  to  make  up 
their  minds  some  time.  At  last  came  the  last  night,  when 
they  all  sat  together,  looking  into  each  other's  faces,  know 
ing  that,  after  to-morrow,  they  might  never  meet  again. 
The  Mistress  had  not  a  great  deal  to  say  on  that  last  night ; 
what  she  did  say  was  of  no  one  continuous  tone.  She  could 
not  make  sermons  to  her  boys — it  might  be  that  there  was 
abruptness  and  impatience  even  in  her  motherly  warnings. 
The  grief  of  this  farewell  did  not  change  her  character, 
though  it  pierced  to  her  heart. 

"  Try  and  get  a  decent  house  to  live  in — dinna  be  about 
inns  or  such  like  places,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  I  ken  by  my- 
sel',  just  the  time  we've  been  here,  Huntley — and  if  it's  un 
settling  to  the  like  of  me,  what  should  it  be  to  a  young  lad  ? 
— but  dinna  be  owre  great  friends  either  with  them  that  put 
you  up — I'm  no  fond  of  friendship  out  of  folks'  ain  degree, 
though  I  ken  weel  that  nobody  that's  kind  to  my  bairn  will 
find  an  ungrateful  thought  in  me ;  but  mind  aye  what  ye 
are,  and  wha  ye  are,  and  a'  that's  looked  for  at  your  hands." 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW.  117 

"  A  poor  emigrant,  mother,"  said  Huntley,  with  rather  a 
tremulous  smile. 

"  Hold  your  peace,  laddie,  dinna  be  unthankful,"  said  the 
Mistress  ;  "  a  lad  with  a  good  house  and  lands  at  hame,  and 
a  hundred  pound  clear  in  his  pocket,  no'  to  say  how  mony 
conveniences  and  handy  things  in  his  boxes,  and  a'  the  com 
forts  that  ye  can  carry.  Dinna  sin  your  mercies,  Huntley, 
before  me." 

"  It  would  not  become  me,"  said  Huntley,  "for  I  might 
have  had  few  comforts  but  for  you,  mother,  that  thought  of 
every  thing ;  as  every  thing  I  have,  if  I  needed  reminding, 
would  make  me  think  of  home  and  you." 

"  Whisht,  whisht,  bairn !"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  broken 
voice  and  a  sob,  two  big  tears  falling  out  of  her  eyes  upon 
her  trembling  hands,  which  she  wiped  off  hurriedly,  almost 
with  a  gesture  of  shame  ;  "  and  ye'll  no'  forget  your  duty, 
Huntley,"  she  added  with  agitated  haste ;  "  mind  what  the 
minister  said  ;  if  there  be  nae  kirk,  as  there  might  not  be, 
seeing  it's  a  savage  place,  never  let  the  Sabbath  day  slip  out 
of  your  hand,  as  if  there  was  na  difference.  Kirks  and  min 
isters  are  a  comfort,  whiles — but,  Huntley,  mind  God's  aye 
nigh  at  hand.  I  bid  ye  baith  mind  that — I'm  no'  what  I 
should  be — I  canna  say  a'  that's  in  my  heart — but,  oh,  lad 
dies,  mind  if  you  should  never  hear  another  word  out  of 
your  mother's  lips !  They  speak  about  ships  and  letters  that 
make  far-away  friends  nigh  each  other,  but,  bairns,  the  Lord 
Himsel'  is  the  nighest  link  between  you  and  me — as  He's  the 
only  link  between  us  a'  and  him  that's  gane." 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  this  burst  out  of  the  deso 
late  heart  of  Norlaw's  widow  and  Huntley's  mother;  a 
pause  in  which  words  would  have  been  vain,  even  if  any 
one  of  them  could  have  found  any  words  to  say,  and  in 
which  the  fatherless  sons,  and  the  mother  who  was  a  widow, 
turned  their  faces  from  each  other,  shedding  those  hurried, 
irrestrainable  tears,  which  they  dared  not  indulge.  It  was 
the  Mistress  who  found  composure  first,  but  she  did  not 
prolong  the  emotion  of  the  little  party  by  continuing  the 
same  strain.  Like  herself,  she  had  no  sooner  found  her 
voice,  than,  shy  of  revealing  the  depths  of  her  heart,  even 
to  her  children,  she  resumed  on  a  totally  different  theme. 

"  If  ye  gang  up  into  the  country,  Huntley,  dinna-  bide 
aye  among  the  beasts,"  said  the  Mistress,  abruptly  ;  "  mind, 


118  THE    LAIKD     OF    NORLAW. 

it's  no'  that  I  put  very  much  faith  in  this  lad  Cassilis,  but 
still,  whatever's  possible  shouldna  be  forgotten.  You  might 
be  Melmar,  with  a  great  estate,  before  mony  years  were 
past,  and,  at  any  rate,  you're  master  of  your  ain  land,  and 
have  as  good  a  name  to  bear  as  ever  came  of  that  house. 
It's  my  hope  to  see  you  back  at  the  head  of  your  house 
hold,  a  man  respected — so  dinna  you  sink  into  a  solitary, 
Huntley,  or  dwell  your  lane  ower  lang.  I've  nothing  to 
say  against  the  making  of  siller — folk  canna  live  without  it 
in  this  world — but  a  fortune's  no  equal  to  a  man — and  if  ye 
canna  make  the  ane  without  partly  sacrificing  the  other, 
come  hame." 

"I  will,  mother,"  said  Huntley,  seriously. 

"  And  there's  just  one  thing  mair,"  added  the  Mistress, 
not  without  a  look  of  uneasiness,  "  be  aye  particular  about 
the  kind  of  folk  you  make  friends  o' — and  specially — weel, 
weel,  you're  both  young  lads.  I  canna  keep  ye  bairns — 
you'll  soon  be  thinking  of  the  like  of  that  yoursel'.  I'm  no 
fond  of  strangers,  Huntley  Livingstone,  I  dinna  understand 
their  ways  ;  dinna  bring  me  a  daugher  of  that  land  to  vex 
me  as  the  fremd  women  vexed  Rebecca.  No'  that  I'm 
meaning  to  put  bondage  on  you — na — I  wouldna  have  it 
said  I  was  jealous  of  my  sons — but  you're  young,  and  young 
lads  are  easily  beguiled ;  wait  till  you  come  hame." 

"  I  give  you  my  word  for  that,  mother  !"  cried  Huntley, 
eagerly,  the  blood  rushing  over  his  face,  as  he  grasped  the 
Mistress's  hand  with  a  quite  unnecessary  degree  of  fervor. 

Perhaps  his  mother  found  him  rather  more  in  earnest 
than  the  vague  nature  of  her  advice  seemed  to  justify.  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  startled  glance  of  suspicion  and  dawn 
ing  displeasure. 

"  Ay,  laddie !"  cried  the  Mistress ;  "  ane  would  think 
you  had  made  up  your  mind  !"  and  she  turned  her  eyes 
upon  the  glow  and  brightening  of  Huntley's  face,  with  a 
little  spark  of  impatience,  But  at  that  moment  the  clock 
below  stairs  began  to  strike  twelve  ;  it  startled  them  all  as 
they  sat  listening — and  gradually,  as  stroke  followed  stroke 
with  that  inevitable  regularity,  the  heart  of  Huntley's 
mother  sank  within  her.  She  took  the  hand,  which  she  had 
been  half  angry  to  find  grasping  hers  in  confirmation  of  his 
earnestness,  tenderly  between  her  own — she  stroked  the 
strong  young  fingers  with  that  hand  of  hers,  somewhat 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  119 

large,  somewhat  wrinkled,  without  an  ornament  upon  it 
save  its  worn  wedding-ring,  the  slow,  fond,  loving  touch  of 
which  brought  hot  tears  to  Huntley's  eyes.  The  Mistress 
did  not  look  up,  because  her  own  face  was  moved  with  a 
grief  and  tenderness  unspeakable  and  beyond  the  reach  of 
words — she  could  not  say  any  thing — she  could  only  sit 
silent,  keeping  down  the  sob  in  her  throat,  the  water  that 
gathered  in  her  eyes,  fondly  holding  her  son's  hand,  cares 
sing  it  with  an  indescribable  pathetic  gesture,  more  touch 
ing  than  the  wildest  passionate  embrace. 

Then  they  all  stood  up  together  to  say  good-night. 

"  Laddies,  it's  no  more  night ! — it's  morning,  and  Hunt- 
ley  sails  this  day,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  oh,  my  bairns ! — and 
I  canna  speak ;  dinna  say  a  word  to  me ! — but  gang  and  lie 
down  and  take  your  rest,  and  the  Lord  send  sleep  to  us  a' 
and  make  us  ready  for  what's  to  come." 

It  was  with  this  good-night,  and  no  more,  that  they 
parted,  but  the  sleep  and  rest  for  which  she  had  prayed  did 
not  come  to  the  mother.  She  was  up  by  daybreak,  once  more 
looking  over  the  last  box  which  Huntley  was  to  take  with 
him  on  board,  to  see  if  any  thing  could  be  added  to  its  stores. 

She  stole  into  her  sons*  room  to  look  at  them  in  their  sleep, 
but  would  not  suffer  any  one  to  wake  them,  though  the 
lads  slept  long,  worn  out  by  excitement  and  emotion.  Then 
the  Mistress  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  went  out  by  herself  to 
try  if  she  could  not  get  something  for  their  breakfast,  more 
delicate  and  dainty  than  usual,  and,  when  she  returned,  ar 
ranged  the  table  with  her  own  hands,  pausing  often  to  wipe 
away,  not  tears,  but  a  sad  moisture  with  which  her  eyes 
were  always  full.  But  she  was  perfectly  composed,  and 
went  about  all  these  homely  offices  of  love  with  a  smile 
more  touching  than  grief.  The  emergency  had  come  at 
last,  and  the  "Mistress  was  not  a  woman  to  break  down  or 
lose  the  comfort  of  this  last  day.  Time  enough  to  break 
her  heart  when  Huntley  was  gone. 

And  the  inevitable  hours  went  on,  as  hours  do  before  one 
of  those  life-partings — slow,  yet  with  a  flow  and  current  in 
their  gradual  progress,  which  seemed  to  carry  them  for 
ward  more  forcibly  than  the  quickest  tide  of  pleasure. 
And  at  last  it  was  time  to  embark.  They  went  down  to 
the  river  together,  saying  very  little  ;  then  on  the  river,  in 
a  boat,  to  reach  the  ship. 


120  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

It  was  a  glorious  harvest-clay,  warm,  sunny,  overflowing 
with  happiness  and  light.  The  opposite  bank  of  the  river 
had  never  looked  so  green,  the  villages  by  its  side  had  never 
detached  themselves  so  brightly  from  the  fields  behind  and 
the  sands  before.  The  very  water  swelling  under  their 
boat  rippled  past  with,  a  heave  and  swell  of  enjoyment,  pal 
pitating  under  the  sunshine  ;  and  the  commonest  boatman 
and  hardest-laboring  sailor  on  these  rejoicing  waters  looked 
like  a  man  whose  life  was  holiday.  People  on  the  pier, 
ignorant  bystanders,  smiled  even  upon  this  little  party  as 
their  boat  floated  off  into  the  midway  of  the  sun-bright 
stream,  as  if  it  was  a  party  of  pleasure.  Instinctively  the 
Mistress  put  down  her  thick,  black  vail,  worked  with  big, 
unearthly  flowers,  which  made  so  many  blots  upon  the  sun 
shine,  and  said  to  Huntley,  from  behind  its  shelter  :  — 

"  What  a  pleasure  it  was  to  see  such  a  day  for  the  begin 
ning  of  his  voyage  !" 

They  all  repeated  the  same  thing  over  mechanically  at 
different  times,  and  that  was  almost  the  whole  substance  of 
what  they  said  until  they  reached  the  ship. 

And  presently,  the  same  little  boat  glided  back  again 
over  the  same  gleaming,  golden  waters,  with  Patie,  very 
pale  and  very  red  by  turns,  in  one  end  of  it,  and  the  Mis 
tress,  with  her  black  vail  over  her  face,  sitting  all  alone  on 
one  side,  with  her  hands  rigidly  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  her 
head  turned  towards  the  ship.  When  the  Flora  began  to 
move  from  her  place,  this  silent  figure  gave  a  convulsive 
start  and  a  cry,  and  so  Huntley  was  gone. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  bulwark  of  the  ship,  looking  out 
at  this  speck  in  the  water — seeing  before  him,  clearer  than 
eyes  ever  saw,  the  faces  of  his  mother,  his  brothers,  his 
dead  father — perhaps  even  of  others  still — with  a  pang  at 
his  heart,  which  was  less  for  himself  than  for  the  widow 
who  could  no  longer  look  upon  her  son ;  his  heart  rising, 
his  heart  sinking,  as  his  own  voyage  hence,  and  her  voyage 
home,  rose  upon  his  imagination — living  through  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future — the  leave-taking  to  which  his 
mind  vibrated — the  home-coming  which  now  seemed  almost 
as  near  and  certain — the  unknown  years  of  absence,  which 
fled  before  him  like  a  dream. 

lie,  too,  started  when  the  vessel  moved  upon  the  sunny 
river — started  with  a  swell  of  rising  enterprise  and  courage. 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  121 

The  daring  of  his  nature,  and  the  gay  wind  blowing  down 
the  river,  fresh  and  favorable,  dried  the  tears  in  Huntley's 
eyes;  but  did  not  dry  that  perpetual  moisture  from  the 
pained  ^  eyelids  of  the  Mistress,  as  she  turned  to  Patie  at 
last,  with  faltering  lips,  to  repeat  that  dreary  congratula 
tion  : — 

"  Eh,  Patie  !  what  a  blessing,  if  we  could  but  think  upon 
it,  to  see  such  a  day  as  this  for  a  guid  beginning  on  the 
sea!" 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

IT  was  very  well  for  the  Mistress's  spirit,  though  scarcely 
for  her  purse,  that  she  was  roused  the  next  day  to  horror 
and  indignation,  scarcely  restrainable,  by  the  supposed  ex 
orbitant  bill  of  the  inn.  She  thought  it  the  most  mon 
strous  imposition  which  ever  had  been  practiced,  and  could 
scarcely  be  persuaded  to  depart  from  her  first  resolution  of 
seeking  out  a  "  decent  writer,"  "  if  there  is  such  a  person  in 
this  wicked  town,"  as  she  added,  scornfully — to  arbitrate 
between  her  and  the  iniquitous  publican.  At  last,  however, 
Patie  succeeded  in  getting  his  mother  safely  once  more 
within  the  Glasgow  steamer. 

It  was  a  melancholy  voyage,  for  every  breath  of  wind 
that  blew,  agitated  Huntley's  mother  with  questions  of  his 
safety ;  and  she  had  no  better  prospect  than  to  part  with 
Patie  at  this  journey's  end.  They  reached  their  destination 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  great,  smoky,  dingy  Glasgow, 
looked  almost  hotter  and  more  stifled  than  the  other  great 
seaport  they  had  left.  From  the  Broomielaw,  they  went 
upon  their  weary  way,  through  the  town,  to  a  humble  lodg 
ing  recommended  by  Dr.  Logan,  whose  letter  to  the  manager 
of  one  of  the  founderies  Patie  carried  in  his  pocket.  The 
house  which  the  travelers  sought  was  up  three  long  flights  of 
stairs,  in  a  dark-complexioned  close,  \^ere  each  flat  was 
divided  into  two  houses.  The  "  land,"  or  block  of  buildings 
in  which  it  was  placed,  formed  one  side  of  a  little  street, 
just  behind  the  place  where  Patie  was  to  work;  and  the 
windows  of  their  lodging  looked  across  the  black  yard  and 

6 


122  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

big  buildings  of  this  great,  noisy  foundery,  to  a  troubled, 
smoky  glimpse  of  the  Clyde,  and  Glasgow  Green  upon  the 
other  side. 

After  he  had  seen  his  mother  safely  arrived  in  this 
shelter,  Patie  had  to  set  out  immediately  to  deliver  his 
letter.  The  Mistress  was  left  once  more  by  herself  to 
examine  her  new  resting-place.  It  was  a  little  room,  with 
a  little  bed  in  the  corner,  hung  with  dark,  unlined  chintz. 
It  was  also  what  is  called  in  these  regions  "  coomcieled," 
which  is  to  say,  the  roof  sloped  on  one  side,  being  close 
under  the  leads.  A  piece  of  carpet  in  the  centre,  a  little 
table  in  the  centre  of  that,  three  chairs,  a  chest  of  drawers, 
and  a  washing  stand,  completed  the  equipment  of  the  room. 
Was  this  to  be  Patie's  room — the  boy's  only  substitute  for 
home? 

The  Mistress  went  to  the  window,  to  see  if  any  comfort 
was  to  be  found  there ;  but  there  was  only  the  foundery — 
the  immense,  black,  coaly,  smoky  yard  into  which  these 
windows  looked  ;  and,  a  little  to  the  right,  a  great  cotton 
factory,  whence,  at  the  sound  of  a  big  bell,  troops  of  girls 
came  crowding  out,  with  their  uncovered  heads  shining  in 
the  evening  sun.  The  Mistress  turned  abruptly  in  again, 
much  discomposed  by  the  prospect.  With  their  colored 
petticoats  and  short  gowns,  and  shining,  uncovered  hair, 
the  Glasgow  mill  girls  were — at  this  distance  at  least — 
rather  a  pretty  sight ;  and  a  perfectly  uninterested  person 
might  have  thought  it  quite  seemly  and  natural  that  the 
black  moleskin  giants  of  the  foundery,  issuing  from  their 
own  cavernous  portals  at  the  same  time,  should  have  ex 
changed  sundry  jokes  and  rough  encounters  of  badinage 
with  their  female  neighbors. 

But  the  Mistress,  whose  son  was  to  be  left  at  this  same 
foundery,  awoke  in  a  horror  of  injured  pride  and  aristocracy 
to  contemplate  an  unimagined  danger. 

"A  barefooted  lassie  from  a  mill! — a  bairn  of  mine!" 
cried  the  Mistress,  with  looks  aghast ;  and  she  drew  a  chair 
carefully  out  of  reach  of  the  window,  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  to  consider  the  matter. 

But  when  she  locked  round  upon  the  bare,  mean  room, 
und  thought  of  the  solitary  lad,  who  knew  nobody  in  Glas 
gow,  who  had  been  used  to  the  kindly  cares  of  home  all  his 
life,  and  who  was  only  a  boy,  although  a  "bairn  of  mine!" 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  123 

it  is  not  very  wonderful,  perhaps,  that  the  Mistress  should 
have  done  even  the  staid  and  sensible  Patie  the  injustice  of 
supposing  him  captivated  by  some  one  of  that  crowd  of 
dumpy  daughters  of  St.  Mungo,  who  were  so  far  beneath 
the  dignity  of  a  son  of  Norlaw.  Even  Huntley,  far  away  at 
sea,  disappeared,  for  the  moment,  from  her  anxious  sight. 
Worse  dangers  than  those  of  sea  or  storm  might  be  here. 

Patie,  meanwhile,  thinking  of  no  womankind  in  the 
world,  not  even  of  his  mother,  was  explaining  very  forcibly 
and  plainly  to  Dr.  Logan's  friend,  the  manager,  his  own 
wishes  and  intentions ;  railways  were  a  very  recent  inven-  / 
tion  in  those  days,  and  steamboats  not  an  old  one — it  was 
the  bright  day  of  engineering,  while  there  still  lingered  a 
certain  romance  about  those  wondrous  creations  of  steel 
and  steam,  with  which  the  world  had  not  yet  grown  too 
familiar — gentlemen  apprentices  were  not  uncommon  in 
those  great  Cyclopean  workshops — but  Patrick  Livingstone 
did  not  mean  to  be  a  gentleman  apprentice,  He  wanted  to 
put  himself  to  school  for  a  couple  of  years,  to  learn  his  craft 
like  a  nnan,  without  privilege  of  gentility,  he  was  too  old 
for  the  regular  trade  apprenticeship,  but  he  desired  nothing 
more  than  a  lessening  of  the  time  of  that  probation — and 
whatever  circumstances  might  lead  him  to  do  at  the  end  of 
it,  Patie  was  not  afraid  of  being  found  wanting  in  needful 
skill  or  knowledge.  Dr.  Logan  had  given  a  most  nattering 
description  of  his  family  and  "station,"  partly  stimulated 
thereto  by  the  zeal  with  which  his  nephew  Cassilis  took  up 
the  cause  of  the  Livingstones — and  Mr.  Crawford,  the  / 
Glasgow  manager,  was  very  civil  to  the  lad,  who  was  the 
son  of  a  landed  proprietor,  and  whose  brother  might,  in  a 
few  years,  be  one  of  the  first  gentlemen  in  the  county  of 
Melrose  ;  the  interview  on  the  whole  was  a  very  satisfactory 
one,  and  Patie  plodded  his  way  back  to  the  little  room 
where  he  had  left  his  mother,  engaged  to  return  next  day 
with  her,  to  conclude  the  arrangement  by  which  he  should 
enter  the  foundery ;  the  lad  was  satisfied,  even  exhilarated, 
in  his  sober  fashion,  to  find  himself  thus  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  more  serious  life.  Though  he  observed  perfectly  the 
locality  and  appearances  around  him,  they  had  not  so  much 
effect  upon  Patie  as  they  might  have  had  on  a  more 
imaginative  temper.  His  calmer  and  more  practical  mind, 
paradox  though  it  seems  to  say  so,  was  less  affected  by 


124  THE    LAIRD     OF 

external  circumstances  than  either  his  mother  or  Huntley, 
and  a  thousand  times  less  than  Cosmo  would  have  been. 
He  did  not  concern  himself  about  his  surroundings — they 
had  little  debasing  or  depressing  influence  upon  his  thoughts 
— he  scarcely  noticed  them  indeed,  if  they  were  sufficient 
for  his  necessities.  Patie  could  very  well  contrive  to  live 
without  beauty,  and  could  manage  to  get  on  with  a  very 
moderate  degree  of  comfort,  so  long  as  his  own  vigorous 
mind  approved  his  life,  and  he  had  plenty  to  do. 

In  consequence  of  which  it  happened  that  Patie  scarcely 
comprehended  his  mother's  dissatisfaction  with  the  room ; 
if  he  remained  here,  it  was  the  only  room  the  mistress  of  the 
house  could  give  her  lodger.  He  thought  it  very  well,  and 
quite  as  much  as  he  required,  and  apprehended  no  particu 
lar  cheerlessness  in  consequence  of  its  poverty. 

"  It  is  not  home,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  great  noncha 
lance,  "  but,  granting  that,  mother,  I  don't  see  what  differ 
ence  it  makes  to  me.  It's  all  well  enough.  I  don't  want 
any  thing  more — it's  near  the  work,  and  it's  in  a  decent  house 
— that  should  be  enough  to  please  you."  « 

"  Hold  your  peace,  Patie — do  you  think  I'm  careless  of 
my  bairn's  comfort?"  cried  the  Mistress,  with  a  half  tone  of 
anger  ;  "  and  wha'  was  ever  used  to  a  place  like  this,  coming 
out  of  Norlaw  ?" 

"  But  there  can  not  be  two  Norlaws,"  said  Patie,  "  nor 
two  homes.  I  want  but  one,  for  my  part.  I  have  no  desire 
at  present  to  like  a  second  place  as  well." 

"  Eh,  laddie,  if  you  can  but  keep  that  thought,  and  be 
true !"  cried  the  Mistress,  "  I  wouldna  heed,  save  for  your 
ain  comfort,  where  you  were  then." 

"Do  you  doubt  me,  mother?  what  are  you  feared 
for  ?  tell  me,  and  I'll  know  what  to  do,"  said  Patie,  coming 
close  to  her,  with  his  look  of  plain,  unmistakable  sincer 
ity. 

"  I'm  no'  feared,"  said  the  Mistress,  those  ever-rising, 
never-falling  tears  dimming  her  eyes  again,  while  yet  a  little 
secondary  emotion,  half  shame  of  her  own  suspicions,  half 
petulance,  rose  to  her  voice ;  "  but  it's  a  poor  place  for  a 
laddie  like  you,  bred  up  at  hame — and  it's  a  great  town,  full 
of  temptations — and  night  and  day  in  a  place  like  this,  ilka 
street  is  full  of  evil — and  naething  but  bare  bed  and  board 
instead  of  hame.  Oh  !  Patie  if  I  was  feared,  it  was  because 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NOKLAW.  125 

I  knew  mony  a  dreary  story  of  lads  that  meant  as  well  as 
yoursel' !" 

"  Perhaps  I  was  presumptuous,  mother,"  said  Patie ;  "  I 
will  not  say  there's  no  fear ; — but  there's  a  difference  be 
tween  one  man  and  another,  and  time  and  your  own  judg 
ment  will  prove  what's  temptation  to  me.  Now,  come,  ?f 
you  have  rested  enough — the  air  will  do  you  more  good  than 
sitting  here." 

The  Mistress  was  persuaded,  and  went  out  accordingly 
with  her  son,  feeling  strangely  forlorn  and  solitary  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfares,  where  she  was  struck  with  the  com 
mon  surprise  of  country  people,  to  meet  so  many  and  to 
know  no  one.  Still  there  was  a  certain  solace  in  the  calm 
summer  evening,  through  which  the  moon  was  rising  in  that 
pale  sky  so  far  away  and  clear,  above  the  hanging  smoke  of 
the  town — and  in  Patie's  arm,  which  seemed  to  support  her 
with  more  pride  and  tenderness  now  that  Himtley  was  gone. 
The  soft  moon  shining  down  upon  the  river,  which  here  was 
not  the  commercial  Clyde,  of  ships  and  steamers,  the  many 
half-distinguishable  figures  upon  the  Green  opposite,  from 
which  color  and  light  were  fading,  and  the  tranquillity  of 
the  night  even  here,  bore  back  the  thoughts  of  the  mother 
into  a  tenderer  channel.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  eyes 
to  clear  them. 

"  Eh  Patie !  I  think  I  see  my  son  on  the  sea,  looking  up 
at  that  very  sky,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  low  sob ;  "  how 
will  I  look  at  it  from  Norlaw,  where  Cosmo  and  me  will  be 
our  lane  ? — and  now  but  another  day  more,  and  I'll  lose 
you !" 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE  Mistress  traveled  home  once  more  by  the  slow  canal 
to  Edinburgh,  and  from  thence  by  the  stage-coach  to  Kirk- 
bride.  She  had  left  Patie,  at  last,  with  some  degree  of  con 
fidence,  having  seen  Mr.  Crawford,  the  manager  of  the 
foundery,  and  commended  her  son  specially  to  his  care ;  and 
having,  besides,  done  what  she  could  to  improve  the  com- 


126  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

fort  of  Patie's  little  apartment,  and  to  warn  him  against  the 
temptations  of  Glasgow.  It  was  rather  heavy  work  after 
ward,  gliding  silently  home  alone  by  the  monotonous  mo 
tion  of  that  canal,  seeing  the  red-tiled  cottages,  the  green 
slopes,  the  stubble-fields  move  past  like  a  dream,  and  remem 
bering  how  she  had  left  her  boys  behind,  one  on  the  sea,  and 
one  among  strangers,  both  embarked  upon  the  current  of 
their  life.  She  sat  still  in  the  little  cabin  of  the  boat  by  one 
of  the  windows,  moving  nothing  but  her  fingers,  which 
clasped  and  unclasped  mechanically.  Her  big  black  vail 
hung  over  her  bonnet,  but  did  not  shroud  her  face ;  there 
was  always  moisture  in  her  eyes,  but  very  seldom  tears  that 
came  the  length  of  falling ;  and  her  mind  was  very  busy, 
and  with  life  in  its  musings — for  it  was  not  alone  of  the  past 
she  was  thinking,  but  also  of  the  future — of  her  own  life  at 
home,  where  Huntley's  self-denial  had  purchased  comfort 
for  his  mother,  and  where  his  mother,  not  to  be  outdone, 
silently  determined  upon  the  course  of  those  days,  which 
she  did  not  mean  to  be  days  of  leisure.  This  Melmar, 
which  had  been  a  bugbear  to  the  Mistress  all  her  days, 
gradually  changed  its  aspect  now.  It  no  longer  reminded 
her  of  the  great  bitterness  of  her  life — it  was  her  son's  pos 
sible  inheritance,  and  might  be  the  triumphant  occasion  of 
Huntley's  return. 

It  was  late  on  a  September  afternoon,  when  she  descended 
from  the  coach  at  the  door  of  the  Norlaw  Arms,  and  found 
Cosmo  and  Marget  waiting  there  to  welcome  her.  The 
evening  sunshine  streamed  full  in  their  faces,  falling  in  a 
tender  glory  from  the  opposite  brae  of  Tyne,  where  the 
white  manse  at  the  summit,  and  the  cottages  among  the 
trees,  shone  in  the  tranquil  light,  with  their  kindliest"  look 
of  home.  The  Mistress  turned  hurriedly  from  the  familiar 
prospect,  to  repose  her  tired  and  wet  eyes  on  the  shadowed 
corner  of  the  village  street,  where  the  gable  of  the  little  inn 
kept  out  the  sunshine,  and  where  the  ostler  had  lifted  down 
her  trunk.  She  grasped  Cosmo's  hand  hastily,  and  scarcely 
ventured  to  look  the  boy  in  the  face ;  it  was  dreary  coming 
home  alone ;  as  she  descended,  bowed  Jaacob  at  the  smithy 
door  took  off  his  cowl  in  token  of  respect,  and  eyed  her 
grimly  with  his  twinkling  eye.  Jaacob,  who  was  a  moral 
philosopher,  was  rather  satisfied,  on  the  whole,  with  the  de 
meanor  of  the  family  of  Norlaw  under  their  troubles,  and 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  127 

testified  his  approbation  by  a  slightly  authoritative  approval. 
The  Mistress  gave  him  a  very  hasty  nod,  but  could  not  look 
even  at  Jaacob ;  a  break-down,  or  public  exhibition  of  emo 
tion,  being  the  thing  of  all  others  most  nervously  avoided 
by  respectable  matrons  of  her  country  and  temper,  a  char 
acteristic  very  usual  among  Scotchwomen,  of  middle  age  and 
sober  mind.  She  would  have  "  thought  shame"  to  have 
been  seen  crying  or  "  giving  way,"  "  in  the  middle  of  the 
town,"  as,  even  now,  enlightened  by  the  sight  of  Edinburgh, 
Glasgow,  and  Liverpool,  the  Mistress  still  called  the  village 
street  of  Kirkbride ;  another  hasty  nod  acknowledged  the 
sympathetic  courtesy  of  the  widow  who  kept  the  village 
mangle,  and  whose  little  boy  had  wept  at  the  door  of  Nor- 
law  when  its  master  was  dying;  and  then  Cosmo  and  Mar- 
get  took  the  trunk  between  them,  and  the  Mistress  drew 
down  her  vail,  and  the  little  party  set  out,  across  the  foot 
bridge,  through  the  tender  slanting  sunshine  going  home. 

Then,  at  last,  between  the  intervals  of  question  and  answer 
as  to  the  common  matters  of  country  life,  which  had  occurred 
during  her  absence,  the  Mistress's  lips  were  opened.  Mar- 
get  and  Cosmo  went  on  before,  along  the  narrow  pathway 
by  the  river,  and  she  followed.  Cosmo  had  spent  half  of 
his  time  at  the  manse,  it  appeared,  and  all  the  neighbors  had 
sent  to  make  kindly  inquiry  when  his  mother  was  expected 
home. 

"  It's  my  hope  you  didna  gang  oftener  than  you  were 
welcome,  laddie,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  characteristic 
doubt ;  "  but  I'll  no  deny  the  minister's  aye  very  kind,  and 
Katie  too.  You  should  not  call  her  Katie  now,  Cosmo, 
she's  woman  grown.  I  said  the  very  same  to  Huntley  no'  a 
week  ago,  but  he's  no  like  to  offend  onybody,  poor  lad,  for 
many  a  day  to  come.  And  I  left  him  very  weel  on  the 
whole — oh,  yes,  very  weel,  in  a  grand  ship  for  size,  and 
mony  mair  in  her — and  they  say  they'll  soon  be  out  of  our 
northerly  seas,  and  win  to  grand  weather,  and  whiles  I 
think,  if  there  was  great  danger,  fewer  folk  would  gang — 
no'  to  say  that  the  Almighty's  no'  a  bit  nigher  by  land  than 
he  is  by  sea." 

"  Eh  !  and  that's  true !"  cried  Marget,  in  an  involuntary 
amen. 

The  Mistress  was  not  perfectly  pleased  by  the  interrup 
tion.  This  tender  mother  could  not  help  being  imperative 


128  THE    LAIRD     OF     NOELAW. 

even  in  her  tenderest  affections ;  and  even  the  faithful  ser 
vant  could  not  share  her  mother-anxieties  without  risk  of  an 
occasional  outbreak. 

"  How's  a'  the  kye  ?"  said  the  Mistress  with  a  momentary 
sharpness.  "  I've  never  been  an  unthrifty  woman,  I'm  bauld 
to  say ;  but  every  mutchkin  of  milk  maun  double  itself  now, 
for  my  bairns'  sakes." 

"  Na,  mem,"  said  Marget,  touched  on  her  honor,  "  it  canna 
weel  do  that ;  but  you  ken  yoursel',  if  you  had  ta'en  my  ad 
vice,  the  byre  might  have  been  mair  profit  years  ago.  Better 
milkers  are  no'  in  a'  the  Lowdens ;  and  if  you  sell  Crummie's 
cauf,  as  I  aye  advised — " 

"  You're  aye  very  ready  with  your  advice,  my  woman.  I 
never  meant  any  other  thing,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  some 
impatience ;  "but  after  this,  the  house  of  Norlaw  maun  even 
get  a  puir  name,  if  it  must  be  so ;  for  I  \varn  ye  baith,  my 
thoughts  are  upon  making  siller ;  and  when  I  put  my  mind 
to  a  thing,  I  canna  do  it  by  halves." 

"  Then,  mother,  you  must,  in  the  first  place,  do  something 
with  me,"  said  Cosmo.  "  I'm  the  only  useless  person  in  the 
house." 

"Useless,  laddie! — hold  you  peace!"  said  the  Mistress. 
"  You're  but  a  bairn,  and  you're  tender,  and  you  maunna 
make  a  profitless  beginning  till  you  win  to  your  strength. 
Huntley  and  Patie — blessings  on  them  ! — were  both  strong 
callants  in  their  nature,  and  got  good  time  to  grow ;  and  I'll 
no'  let  my  youngest  laddie  lose  his  youth.  Eh,  Cosmo,  my 
man  !  if  you  were  a  lassie,  instead  of  their  brother,  thae  twa 
laddies  that  are  away  could  not  be  mair  tender  of  you  in 
their  hearts !" 

A  flush  came  over  Cosmo's  face,  partly  gratified  affection, 
partly  a  certain  shame. 

"  But  I'll  soon  be  a  man,"  he  said,  in  a  low  and  half  ex 
cited  tone ;  "  and  I  can  not  be  content  to  wait  quietly  at 
home  when  my  brothers  are  working.  I  have  a  right  to 
work  as  well." 

"  Bless  the  bairn  !"  cried  Marget,  once  more  involuntarily. 

"  Dinna  speak  nonsense,"  said  the  Mistress.  "  There's  a 
time  for  every  thing ;  and  because  I'm  bereaved  of  twa,  is 
that  a  reason  my  last  bairn  should  leave  me  ?  Fie,  laddie  ! 
Patie's  eighteen — he's  come  the  length  of  a  man — there's  a 
year  and  mair  between  him  and  you.  But  what  I  was 


THE     LAIRD     OF     NOEL  AW  129 

speaking  of  was  the  kye.  There's  nae  such  stock  in  the 
country  as  the  beasts  that  are  reared  at  Tyneside ;  and  I 
mean  to  take  a  leaf  out  of  Mr.  Blackadder's  book,  if  I'm 
spared,  and  see  what  we  can  do  at  Norlaw." 

"  Eh,  Mistress,  Mr.  Blackadder's  a  man  in  his  prime !" 
cried  Marget. 

"Weel,  you  silly  haverel,  what  am  I?  Do  you  think  a 
man  that's  laboring  just  for  good  name  and  fame,  and  be 
cause  he  likes  it,  and  that  has  nae  kin  in  the  world  but  a  far 
away  cousin,  should  be  stronger  for  his  wark  than  a  widow 
woman  striving  for  her  bairns?"  cried  the  Mistress,  with  a 
hasty  tear  in  her  eye,  and  a  quick  flush  on  her  cheek ; 
"  but  I'll  let  you  a'  see  different  things,  if  I'm  spared,  in 
Norlaw." 

While  she  spoke  with  this  flush  of  resolution,  they  came 
in  sight  of  their  home ;  but  it  was  not  possible  to  see  the 
westerly  sunshine  breaking  through  those  blank  eyes  of  the 
old  castle,  and  the  low,  modern  house  standing  peacefully 
below,  those  unchanged  witnesses  of  all  the  great  scenes  of 
all  their  lives,  without  a  strain  of  heart  and  courage,  which 
was  too  much  for  all  of  them.  To  enter  in,  remembering 
where  the  father  took  his  rest,  and  how  the  sons  began  their 
battle — to  have  it  once  more  pierced  into  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  that,  of  all  the  family  once  circling  her,  there  re 
mained  only  Cosmo,  overpowered  the  Mistress,  even  in  the 
midst  of  her  new  purpose,  with  a  returning  agony.  She 
went  in  silent,  pressing  her  hand  upon  her  heart.  It  was  a 
sad  coming  home. 


CHAPTEE   XXVII. 


so  you're  the  only  ane  of  them  left  at  hame  ?"  said 
bowed  Jaacob,  looking  up  at  Cosmo  from  under  his  bushy 
brows,  and  pushing  up  his  red  cowl  off  his  forehead. 

And  there  could  not  have  been  a  more  remarkable  con 
trast  of  appearance  than  between  this  slight,  tall,  fair  boy, 
and  the  swart  little  demon,  who  considered  him  with  a  sci- 

6* 


130  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

entific  curiosity,  keen,  yet  not  unkindly,  from  the  red  twilight 
of  the  blacksmith's  shop. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  not  to  be  left  at  home,"  said 
Cosmo,  with  a  boyish  flush  of  shame ;  "  and  it  will  not  be 
for  long,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Weel,  I'll  no'  say  but  ye  a'  show  a  good  spirit — a  very 
good  spirit,  considering  your  up-bringing,"  said  Jaacob, 
"  which  was  owre  tender  for  laddies.  I've  little  broo,  for 
my  ain  part,  of  women's  sons.  We're  a'  that,  more  or  less, 
doubtless,  but  the  less  the  better,  lad.  I  kent  little  about 
mothers  and  such  like  when  I  was  young  mysel'." 

"  They  say,"  said  Cosmo,  who,  in  spite  of  his  sentiment, 
had  a  quick  perception  of  humor,  and  was  high  in  favor 
with  the  little  Cyclops,  "  they  say  you  were  a  fairy,  and 
frightened  everybody  from  your  cradle,  Jacob,  and  that 
your  mother  fainted  with  fear  when  she  saw  you  first — is  it 
true  ?" 

"True! — aye,  just  as  true 'as  a' the  rest,"  said  Jaacob. 
"  They'll  say  whatever  ye  like  that's  marvellous,  if  ye'll  but 
listen  to  them.  A  man  o'  sense  is  an  awfu'  phenomenon  in 
a  place  like  this.  He's  no'  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  com 
mon  laws  o'  nature ;  that's  the  philosophy  of  the  matter. 
You're  owre  young  yet  to  rouse  them;  but  they'll  make 
their  story,  or  a's  one — take  my  word  for  it — of  a  lad  of 
genius  like  yoursel'." 

"  Genius,  Jacob !" 

The  boy's  face  grew  red  with  a  sudden,  violent  flush  ; 
and  an  intense,  sudden  light  shone  in  his  dark  eyes.  He  did 
not  laugh  at  the  compliment — it  awoke  some  powerful  sen 
timent  of  vanity  or  self-consciousness  in  his  own  mind.  The 
lighting-lip  of  his  eyes  was  like  a  sudden  gleam  upon  a  dark 
water — a  revelation  of  a  hundred  unknown  shadows  and  re 
flections  which  had  been  there  unrevealed  for  many  a  day 
before. 

"Aye,  genius.  I  ken  the  true  metal  when  I  hear  it 
ring,"  said  Jaacob.  "  Like  draws  to  like,  as  ony  fool 
can  tell." 

And  then  the  boy  turned  away  with  a  sudden  laugh — a 
perfectly  mirthful,  pure  utterance  of  the  half-fun,  half-shame, 
and  wholly  ludicrous  impression  which  this  climax  made 
upon  him. 

Strangely  enough,  Jaacob  was  not  offended.     He   went 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  131 

on,  moving  about  the  red  gloom  of  his  workshop,  with 
out  the  slightest  appearance  of  displeasure.  He  had  no 
idea  that  the  lad  whom  he  patronized  could  laugh  at 
him. 

"  I  can  not  say  but  I'm  surprised  at  your  brother  for  a' 
that,"  said  Jaacob.  "  Huntley's  a  lad  of  spirit ;  but  he 
should  have  stood  up  to  Me'mar  like  a  man." 

"  Do  you  know  about  Me'mar,  too  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  in 
some  surprise. 

"  I  reckon  I  do ;  and  maist  things  else,"  said  Jaacob, 
dryly.  "  I'm  no'  vindictive  mysel',  but  when  a  man  does  me 
an  ill  turn,  I've  a  real  good  disposition  to  pay  him  back.  He 
aye  had  a  grudge  against  the  late  N"orlaw,  this  Aberdeenawa' 
man  ;  and  if  I  had  been  your  faither,  Cosmo,  lad,  I'd  have 
fought  the  Iiaill  affair  to  the  last,  though  it  cost  me  every 
bodle  I  had  ;  for  wha  does  a'  the  land  and  the  rights  belong 
to,  after  all  ? — to  her,  and  no'  to  him !" 

"Did  you  know  her?"  asked  Cosmo,  breathlessly,  not 
perceiving,  in  his  eager  curiosity,  how  limited  Jaacob's  real 
knowledge  of  the  case  was. 

"  Aye,"  said  Jaacob  ;  and  the  ugly  little  demon  paused, 
and  breathed  from  his  capacious  lungs  a  sigh,  which  dis 
turbed  the  atmosphere  of  the  smithy  with  a  sudden  convul 
sion.  Then  he  added,  quietly,  and  in  an  undertone,  "  I  had 
a  great  notion  of  her  mysel'." 

"  You  !"  said  Cosmo. 

The  boy  did  not  know  whether  to  fall  upon  his  companion 
with  sudden  indignation,  and  give  him  a  hearty  shake  by  his 
deformed  shoulders,  or  to  retire  with  an  angry  laugh  of 
ridicule  and  resentment.  Both  the  more  violent  feelings, 
however,  merged  into  the  unmitigated  amazement  with 
which  Cosmo  at  last  gazed  at  the  swarthy  hunchback,  who 
had  ventured  to  lift  his  eyes  to  Norlaw's  love. 

"  And  what  for  no'  me  ?"  said  Jaacob,  sturdily ;  "  do  ye 
think  it's  good  looks  and  naught  else  that  takes  a  woman's 
e'e  ?  do  you  think  I  havena  had  them  in  my  offer  as  weel 
favored  as  Mary  Huntley  ?  N"a,  I'll  do  them  this  justice  ;  a 
woman,  if  she's  no'  a  downright  haverel,  kens  a  man  of 
sense  when  she  sees  him.  Mony  a  wiselike  woman  has  cast 
her  e'e  in  at  this  very  smiddy ;  but  I'm  no'  a  marrying 
man." 

"  You  would  have  made  many  discontented,  and  one  un- 


132  THE    LAIED     OF     NORLAW. 

grateful,"  said  the  boy,  laughing.     "  Is  that  what  kept  you 
back,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Just  that,"  said  the  philosopher,  with  a  grim  smile  ; 
"  but  I  had  a  great  notion  of  Miss  Mary  Huntley ;  she  was 
aulder  than  me ;  that's  aye  the  way  with  callants ;  ye'H  be 
setting  your  heart  on  a  woman  o'  twenty  yoursel'.  I'd  have 
gane  twenty  miles  a-foot,  wet  or  dry,  just  to  shoe  her  powny ; 
and  I  wouldna  have  let  her  cause  gang  to  the  wa',  as  your 
father  did,  if  it  had  been  me." 

"  Was  she  beautiful  ?  what  like  was  she,  Jacob  ?"  cried 
Cosmo,  eagerly. 

"  I  can  not  undertake  to  tell  you  just  what  she  was  like,  a 
callant  like  you,"  said  Jaacob ;  then  the  dark  hobgoblin  made 
a  pause,  drawing  himself  half  into  his  furnace,  as  the  boy 
could  suppose.  "  She  was  like  a  man's  first  fancy,"  con 
tinued  the  little  giant,  abruptly,  drawing  forth  a  red-hot  bar 
of  iron,  which  made  a  fiery  flash  in  the  air,  and  lighted  up 
his  own  swart  face  for  the  moment ;  "  she  was  like  the 
woman  a  lad  sets  his  heart  on,  afore  he  kens  the  cheats  of 
this  world,"  he  added,  at  another  interval,  with  a  great  blow 
of  his  hammer,  which  made  the  sparks  fly ;  and  through 
the  din  and  the  flicker  no  further  words  came.  Cosmo's 
imagination  filled  up  the  ideal.  The  image  of  Mary  of  Mel- 
mar  rose  angel-like  out  of  the  boy's  stimulated  fancy,  and 
there  was  not  even  a  single  glimmer  of  the  grotesque  light 
of  this  scene  to  diminish  the  romantic  halo  which  rose  around 
his  father's  first  love. 

"As  for  me,  if  you  think  the  like  of  me  presumed  in  lift 
ing  his  e'en,"  said  Jaacob,  "  I'll  warn  you  to  change  your 
ideas,  my  man,  without  delay;  a'  that  auld  trash  canna 
stand  the  dint  of  good  discussion  and  opinion  in  days  like 
these.  Speak  about  your  glorious  revolutions !  I  tell  you, 
callant,  we're  on  the  eve  of  the  real  glorious  revolution,  the 
time  when  every  man  shall  have  respect  for  his  neighbors — 
save  when  his  neighbor's  a  fool ;  nane  o'  your  oligarchies  for 
a  free  country;  we're  men,  and  we'll  have  our  birthright;  and 
do  you  think  I'm  heeding  what  a  coof's  ancestors  wrere, 
when  I  ken  I'm  worth  twa  o'  him — ay,  or  ten  o'  him ! — as 
a'  your  bits  o'  lords  and  gentlemen  will  find  as  soon  as  we've 
The  Bill." 

"An  honorable  ancestor  is  an  honor  to  any  man,"  said 
Cosmo,  firing  with  the  pride  of  birth.  "  I  would  not  take 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  133 

the  half  of  the  county,  if  it  was  offered  me,  in  place  of  the 
old  castle  at  Norlaw." 

"  Well,"  said  Jaacob,  with  a  softening  glance,  "  it's  no'  an 
ill  sentiment  that,  I'll  allow,  so  far  as  the  auld  castle  gangs ; 
but  ony  man  that  thinks  he's  of  better  flesh  and  bluid  than 
me,  no'  to  say  intellect  and  spirit,  on  the  strength  of  four 
old  wa's,  or  the  old  rascals  that  thieved  in  them — I'll  tell 
ye,  Cosmo,  my  lad,  I  think  he's  a  fool,  and  that's  just  the 
short  and  the  long  o'  the  affair." 

"  Better  flesh  and  blood,  or  better  intellect  and  spirit !" 
said  the  boy,  with  a  half-meditative,  half-mirthful  smile. 
"  Homer  was  a  beggar,  and  so  was  Belisarius,  and  so  was 
Blind  Harry,  of  Wallace's  time." 

This  highly  characteristic,  school-boyish,  and  national  con 
fusion  of  heroes,  moved  the  blacksmith-philosopher  with  no 
sensation  of  the  absurd.  Homer  and  Blind  Harry  were  by 
no  means  unfit  companions  in  the  patriotic  conception  of 
bowed  Jaacob,  who,  nevertheless,  knew  Pone's  Homer  very 
tolerably,  and  was  by  no  mea*ns  ignorant  of  the  pretensions 
of  the  u  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle." 

"A  feesical  disqualification,  Cosmo,  is  quite  a  different 
matter,"  said  Jaacob;  "naeman  could  make  greater  allowance 
for  the  like  of  that  than  me,  that  might  have  been  supposed 
at  one  time  to  be  on  the  verge  of  it  mysel'." 

And  as  he  spoke,  his  one  bright  eye  twinkled  in  Jaacob's 
head  with  positive  scintillations,  as  if  Nature  had  endowed 
it  with  double  power  to  make  up  for  its  solitude. 

"  The  like  of  Homer  and  Blind  Harry,  however,  belong- 
to  a  primitive  age,"  said  Jaacob  ;  "  the  minstrel  crew  were 
aye  vagrants — no'  to  say  it  was  little  better  than  a  kind  of 
a  servile  occupation  at  the  best,  praises  of  the  great.  But 
the  world's  wiser  by  this  time.  I  would  not  say  I  would 
make  the  Bill  final,  mysel',  but  let's  aince  get  it,  laddie,  and 
ye'll  see  a  change.  We'll  hae  nae  mair  o'  your  lordlings  in 
the  high  places — we'll  hae  naething  but  men." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  any  thing,  Jacob,"  said  Cosmo,  some 
what  abruptly — for  the  romantic  story  of  his  kinswoman 
was  more  attractive  to  the  boy's  mind  than  politics — "  of 
where  the  young  lady  of  Me'mar  went  to,  or  who  it  was  she 
married  ?  I  suppose  not,  since  she  was  searched  for  so 
long." 

"  No  man  ever  speered  at  me  before,  so  far  as  I  can  mind," 


134  THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW. 

said  Jaacob,  with  a  little  bitterness ;  "  your  father  behoved 
to  manage  the  haill  business  hirasel',  and  he  was  na  great 
hand.  Tin  no'  fond  of  writers  when  folk  can  do  without 
them,  but  they're  of  a  certain  use,  nae  doubt,  like  a'  other 
vermin  ;  a  sharp  ane  o'  them  would  have  found  Mary  Hunt- 
ley,  ye  may  take  my  word  for  that.  I  was  aince  in  France 
mysel'." 

"  In  France  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  with  undeniable  respect  and 
excitement. 

"Ay,  just  that,"  said  Jaacob,  dryly;  "it's  nae  such  great 
thing,  though  folk  make  a  speech  about  it.  I  wasna  far  in- 
ower.  I  was  at  a  bit  seaport  place  on  the  coast ;  Dieppe 
they  ca'  it,  and  deep  it  was  to  an  innocent  lad  like  what  I 
was  at  the  time — though  I  could  haud  my  ain  with  maist 
men,  both  then  and  at  this  day." 

"And  you  saw  there  ?" — cried  Cosmo,  who  became  very 
much  interested. 

"  Plenty  of  fools,"  said  Jaacob,  "  and  every  wean  in  the 
streets  jabbering  French,  whi£h  took  me  mair  aback  than 
onything  else  I  either  heard  or  saw  ;  but  there  was  ae  day 
a  lady  passed  me  by.  I  didna  see  her  face  at  first,  but  I  saw 
the  bairn  she  had  in  her  hand,  and  I  thought  to  mysel'  I 
could  not  but  ken  the  foot,  that  had  a  ring  upon  the  path 
Uke  siller  bells.  I  gaed  round  about,  and  round  about,  till 
[  met  her  in  the  face,  but  whether  it  was  her  or  no  I  canna 
tell ;  I  stood  straight  afore  her  in  the  midroad,  and  she  passed 
me  by  with  a  glance,  as  if  she  kent  nae  me." 

The  tone  in  which  the  little  hunchback  uttered  these 
words  was  one  of  indescribable  yet  suppressed  bitterness. 
He  was  too  proud  to  acknowledge  his  mortification  ;  yet  it 
was  clear  enough,  even  to  Cosmo,  that  this  pride  had  not 
only  prevented  him  from  mentioning  his  chance  meeting  at 
the  proper  time,  but  that  even  now  he  would  willingly  per 
suade  himself  that  the  ungrateful  beauty,  who  did  not  rec 
ognize  him,  could  not  be  the  lady  of  his  visionary  admira 
tion. 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  the  Lady  of  Melmar  ?"  asked  the 
boy,  anxiously,  for  Jaacob's  "  feelings,"  though  they  had  no 
small  force  of  human  emotion  in  them,  were,  for  the  moment, 
rather  a  secondary  matter  to  Cosmo. 

"  If  it  had  been  her,  she  would  have  kent  me,"  said  Vul 
can,  with  emphasis,  and  he  turned  to  his  hammering  with 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  135 

vehemence  doubly  emphatic.  Jaacob  had  no  inclination  to 
be  convinced  that  Mary  of  Melmar  might  forget  him,  who 
remembered  her  so  well.  He  returned  to  the  Bill,  which 
'was  more  or  less  in  most  people's  thoughts  in  those  days, 
and  which  was  by  no  means  generally  uninteresting  to 
Cosmo — but  the  boy's  thoughts  were  too  much  excited  to 
be  amused  by  Jaacob's  politics ;  and  Cosmo  went  home  with 
visions  in  his  mind  of  the  quaint  little  Norman  town,  where 
Mary  of  Melmar  had  been  seen  by  actual  vision,  and  which 
henceforth  became  a  region  of  dreams  and  fancy  to  her 
young  knight  and  champion,  who  meant  to  seek  her  over  all 
the  world. 


CHAPTEK    XXVIII. 

ERE  the  winter  had  fully  arrived,  visible  changes  had  taken 
place  in  the  house  and  steading  of  Norlaw.  As  soon  as  all 
the  operations  of  the  harvest  were  over,  the  Mistress  dis 
missed  all  the  men-servants  of  the  farm,  save  two,  and  let, 
at  Martinmas,  all  the  richer  portion  of  the  land,  which  was 
in  good  condition,  and  brought  a  good  rent.  Closely  follow 
ing  upon  the  plowmen  went  Janet,  the  younger  maid 
servant,  who  obtained,  to  her  great  pride,  but  doubtful  ad 
vantage,  a  place  in  a  great  house  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  Norlaw  byres  were  enlarged  and  improved — the  Nor- 
law  cattle  increased  in  number  by  certain  choice  and  valua 
ble  specimens  of  "  stock,"  milch-kine,  sleek  and  fair,  and 
balmy-breathed.  Some  few  fields  of  turnips  and  mangel- 
wurzel,  and  the  rich  pasture  lands  on  the  side  of  Tyne  be 
hind  the  castle,  were  all  that  the  Mistress  retained  in  her 
own  hands,  and  with  Marget  for  her  factotum,  and  Willie 
Noble,  the  same  man  who  had  assisted  in  Norlaw's  midnight 
funeral,  for  her  chief  manager  and  representative  out  of 
doors,  Mrs.  Livingstone  began  her  new  undertaking. 

She  was  neither  dainty  of  her  own  hands,  nor  tolerant  of 
any  languid  labor  on  the  part  of  others.  Not  even  in  her 
youth,  when  the  hopes  and  prospects  of  Norlaw  were  better 
than  the  reality  ever  became,  had  the  Mistress  shown  the 
smallest  propensity  to  adopt  the  small  pomp  of  a  landed 


136  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

lady.  She  was  always  herself,  proud,  high-spirited,  some 
what  arbitrary,  by  no  means  deficient  in  a  sense  of  personal 
importance,  yet  angrily  fastidious  as  to  any  false  pretensions 
in  her  house,  and  perceiving  truly  her  real  position,  which, 
with  all  the  added  dignity  of  proprietorship,  was  still  in  fact 
that  of  a  farmer's  wife.  All  the  activity  and  energy  with 
which  she  had  toiled  all  her  life  against  her  thriftless  hus 
band's  unsteady  grasp  of  his  own  affairs,  and  against  the 
discouraging  and  perpetual  unprosperity  of  many  a  year, 
were  intensified  now  by  the  consciousness  of  having  all  her 
purposes  within  her  own  hand  and  dependent  on  herself. 
Naked  and  empty  as  the  house  looked  to  the  eyes  which 
had  been  accustomed  to  so  many  faces,  now  vanished  from 
it,  there  began  to  grow  an  intention  and  will  about  all  its 
daily  work,  which  even  strangers  observed.  Though  the 
Mistress  sat,  as  usual,  by  the  corner  window  with  her  work 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  dining-parlor  was  as  homelike  as 
ever,  and  the  neighbors  saw  no  change,  except  the  change 
of  dress  which  marked  her  widowhood,  Marget,  half 
ashamed  of  the  derogation,  half  proud  of  the  ability,  and 
between  shame  and  pride  keeping  the  secret  of  these  labors, 
knew  of  the  Mistress's  early  toils,  which  even  Cosmo  knew 
very  imperfectly ;  her  brisk  morning  hours  of  superintend 
ence  and  help  in  the  kitchen  and  in  the  dairy,  which,  with 
all  its  new  appliances  and  vigorous  working,  became  "just  a 
picture,"  as  Marget  thought,  and  the  pride  of  her  own  heart. 
Out  of  the  produce  of  those  carefully  tended  precious  "  kye," 
out  of  the  sweet  butter,  smelling  of  Tyne  gowans,  and  the 
rich,  yellow  curds  of  cheese,  and  the  young,  staggering, 
long-limbed  calves  which  Willie  Noble  had  in  training,  the 
Mistress,  fired  with  a  mother's  ambition,  meant  to  return 
tenfold  to  Huntley  his  youthful  self-denial,  and  even  to  lay 
up  something  for  her  younger  sons. 

It  was  still  only  fourteen  years  since  the  death  of  the  old 
Laird  of  Melmar,  the  father  of  the  lost  Mary ;  and  there 
was  yet  abundant  time  for  the  necessary  proceedings  to  claim 
her  inheritance,  without  fear  of  the  limiting  law,  which  ulti 
mately  might  confirm  the  present  possessor  beyond  reach  of 
attack.  The  last  arrangement  made  by  Huntley  had  ac 
cordingly  been,  that  all  these  proceedings  should  be  post 
poned  for  three  or  four  years,  during  which  time  the  lost 
heiress  might  reappear,  or,  more  probable  still,  the  sanguine 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  137 

lad  thought,  his  own  fortunes  prosper  so  well,  that  he  could 
bear  the  expense  of  the  litigation  without  touching  upon  the 
little  patrimony  sacred  to  his  mother.  After  so  long  an  in 
terval,  a  few  years  more  or  less  would  not  harm  the  cause, 
and  in  the  meantime  every  exertion  was  to  be  made  by 
Cassilis,  as  Huntley's  agent,  for  the  discovery  of  Mary  of 
Melmar.  This  was  the  only  remaining  circumstance  of  pain 
in  the  whole  case  to  the  Mistress.  She  could  not  help  re 
senting  everybody's  interest  about  this  heiress,  who  had  only 
made  herself  interesting  by  her  desertion  of  that  "  home 
and  friends,"  which,  to  the  Mistress  herself,  were  next  to 
God  in  their  all-commanding,  all-engrossing  claim.  She  wras 
angry  even  with  the  young  lawyer,  but  above  all,  angry  that 
her  own  boys  should  be  concerned  for  the  rights  of  the  wo 
man  who  had  forsaken  all  her  duties  so  violently,  and  with 
so  little  appearance  of  penitence  ;  and  if  sometimes  a  thought 
of  despondency  and  bitterness  crossed  the  mind  of  the  Mis 
tress  at  night,  as  she  sat  sewing  by  the  solitary  candle,  which 
made  one  bright  speck  of  light,  and  no  more,  in  the  dim 
diaing-ropm  of  Norlaw,  the  aggrieved  feeling  found  but  one 
expression.  "  I  would  not  say  now,  but  what  after  we've  a' 
done  our  best — me  among  the  beasts,  and  my  laddie  ower 
the  seas,  and  the  writers  afore  the  Fifteen,"  were  the  words, 
never  spoken,  but  often  conceived,  which  rose  in  the  Mis 
tress's  heart ;  "  I  would  riot  wonder  but  then,  when  the 
land's  gained  and  a's  done,  she'll  come  hame.  It  would  be 
just  like  a'  the  rest !"  And  let  nobody  condemn  the  Mistress. 
Many  a  hardly-laboring  soul,  full  of  generous  plans  and  mo 
tives,  has  seen  a  stranger  enter  into  its  labors,  or  feared  to 
see  it,  and  felt  the  same. 

In  the  meantime,  Cosmo,  who  had  got  all  that  the  parish 
schoolmaster  of  Kirkbride — no  contemptible  teacher — could 
give  him,  had  been  drawing  upon  Dr.  Logan's  rusty  Latin 
and  Greek,  rather  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  good  minister 
than  to  his  own  particular  improvement,  and  tired  of  read 
ing  every  thing  that  could  be  picked  up  in  the  shape  of 
reading  from  the  old  parchment  volumes  of  second-rate 
Latin  "divinity,  which  the  excellent  minister  never  opened, 
but  had  a  certain  respect  for,  down  to  the  Gentle  Shepherd 
and  the  floating  ballad  literature  of  the  country-side,  began 
to  grow  more  and  more  anxious  to  emulate  his  brothers,  and 
set  out  upon  the  world.  The  winter  nights  came  on,  grow- 


138  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

ing  longer  and  longer,  and  Cosmo  scorched  his  fair  hair  and 
stooped  his  slight  shoulders,  reading  by  the  fire-light,  while 
his  mother  worked  by  the  table,  and  while  the  November 
winds  began  to  sound  in  the  echoing  depths  of  the  old  cas 
tle.  The  house  was  very  still  of  nights,  and  missed  the  ab 
sent  sorely,  and  both  the  Mistress  and  her  faithful  servant 
were  fain  to  shut  up  the  house  and  go  to  rest  as  soon  as  it 
was  seemly,  a  practice  to  which  their  early  habits  in  the 
morning  gave  abundant  excuse,  though  its  real  reason  lay 
deeper. 

"  Ane  can  bear  mony  a  thing  in  good  daylight,  when  a' 
the  work's  in  hand,"  Marget  said  ;  "  but  womenfolk  think 
lang  at  night,  when  there's  nae  blythe  step  sounding  ower 
the  door,  nor  tired  man  coming  hame."  And  though  she 
never  said  the  same  words,  the  same  thought  was  in  the 
Mistress's  heart. 

One  of  these  slow  nights  was  coming  tardily  to  a  close, 
when  Cosmo,  wrho  had  been  gathering  up  his  courage,  hav 
ing  finished  his  book  on  the  hearth-rug,  where  the  boy  half 
sat  and  half  reclined,  rose  suddenly  and  came  to  his  mother 
at  the  table.  Perhaps  some  similar  thoughts  of  her  own 
had  prepared  the  Mistress  to  anticipate  wrhat  he  was  about 
to  say.  She  did  not  love  to  be  forestalled,  and,  before 
Cosmo  spoke,  answered  with  some  impatience  to  the  pur 
pose  in  his  eye. 

"  I  ken  very  well  what  you're  going  to  say.  We  el,  I  wot 
the  night's  lang,  and  the  house  is  quiet — mair  folk  than  you 
can  see  that,"  said  the  Mistress,  "  and  you're  a  restless  spirit, 
though  I  did  not  think  it  of  you.  Cosmo,  do  you  ken  what 
I  would  like  you  to  do  ?" 

"  I  could  guess,  mother,"  said  the  boy. 

"Ay,  'deed,  and  ye  could  object.  I  might  have  learned 
that,"  said  his  mother. 

"I've  got  little  of  my  ain  will  a'  my  life,  though  a 
fremd  person  would  tell  you  I  was  a  positive  woman.  Most 
things  I've  set  my  heart  on  have  come  to  naught.  IsTorlaw's 
near  out  of  our  hands,  and  Huntley  and  Patie  are  in  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  I'm  a  widow  woman,  desolate  of  my 
bairns;  weel,  weel,  I'm  no  complaining — but  when  I  saw 
you  first  in  your  cradle,  Cosmo — you  were  the  bonniest  of 
a'  my  bairns — I  put  my  hands  on  your  head,  and  I  said  to 
myself — « I'll  make  him  my  offering  to  the  Lord,  because 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOELAW.  139 

he's  the  fairest  lamb  of  a'.'  Na,  laddie — never  mind,  I'm  no 
heeding.  You  needna  put  your  arms  round  me.  It's  near 
seventeen  year  ago,  and  mony  a  weary  day  since  then,  but 
I've  aye  thought  upon  my  vow." 

"Mother,  if  I  can,  I'll  fulfill  it !"  cried  Cosmo  ;  "  but  how 
could  I  know  your  heart  was  in  it,  when  you  never  spoke  of 
it  before  ?" 

"  Na,"  said  the  Mistress,  restraining  herself  with  an  effort. 
"  I've  done  my  best  to  bring  you  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord, 
and  it's  no  written  that  you  maun  be  a  minister,  before  you 
can  serve  Him.  I'll  no'  put  a  burden  on  your  conscience ; 
but  just  I  was  a  witless  woman,  and  didna  mind  when  I  saw 
the  bairn  in  the  cradle  that  before  it  came  that  length,  it 
would  have  a  will  of  its  own." 

"  Send  me  to  college,  mother  !"  said  Cosmo,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "  I  have  made  no  plans,  and  if  I  had  I  could 
change  them — and  at  the  worst,  if  we  find  I  can  not  be  a 
minister,  I  will  never  forget  your  vow — put  your  hands  on 
my  head  and  say  it  over  again." 

But  when  the  boy  knelt  down  at  her  side  with  the  enthu 
siasm  of  his  temper,  and  lifted  his  glowing,  youthful  face, 
full  of  a  generous  young  emotion,  which  was  only  too  gene 
rous  and  ready  to  be  swayed  by  the  influences  of  love,  the 
Mistress  could  only  bend  over  him  with  a  silent  burst  of 
tenderness. 

"  God  bless  my  dearest  bairn  !'.'  she  said  at  last,  with  her 
broken  voice.  "  But  no,  no  ! — I've  learned  wisdom.  The 
Lord  make  ye  a'  His  ain  servants — every  ane — I  can  say  nae 
mair." 


CHAPTEE     XXIX. 

IT  was  accordingly  but  a  very  short  time  after  these 
occurrences  when  Cosmo,  with  his  wardrobe  carefully  over 
looked,  his  "  new  blacks"  supplemented  by  a  coarser  every 
day  suit,  which  took  the  place  of  the  jacket  which  the  lad 
had  outgrown,  and  a  splendid  stock  of  linen,  home-made, 
snow-white  and  bleached  on  the  gowans — took  his  way  to 
Edinburgh  in  all  the  budding  glory  of  a  student.  In  those 


140  THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW. 

days  few  people  ha'd  begun  to  speculate  whether  the  Scotch 
Universities  were  or  were  not  as  good  as  the  English  ones, 
or  what  might  be  the  characteristic  differences  of  the  two. 
The  academic  glories  of  Edinburgh  still  existed  in  the  fresh 
glories  of  tradition,  if  they  had  begun  to  decline  in  reality 
— and  chairs  were  still  held  in  the  northern  college  by  men 
at  whose  feet  statesmen  had  learned  philosophy. 

The  manner  in  which  Cosmo  Livingstone  went  to  college 
was  not  one,  however,  in  which  anybody  goes  to  Maud 
lin  or  Trinity.  The  lad  went  to  take  up  his  humble  lodg 
ing  at  Mrs.  Purdie's  in  the  High  Street,  and  from  thence 
dropped  shyly  to  the  college,  paid  his  fees  and  matriculated, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  There  were  no  rooms  to  look 
after,  no  tutors  to  see,  no  "men"  to  be  made  acquainted 
with.  He  had  a  letter  in  his  pocket  to  one  of  the  professors, 
and  one  to  the  minister  of  one  of  the  lesser  city  churches. 
His  abode  was  to  be  the  same  little  room  with  the  "  con 
cealed  bed"  and  window  overlooking  the  town,  in  which  his 
mother  had  rested  as  she  passed  through  Edinburgh,  and 
the  honest  Kirkbride  woman,  who  was  his  landlady,  had 
been  already  engaged  at  a  moderate  weekly  rate  to  procure 
all  that  he  wanted  for  him. 

„  After  which  fashion — feeling  very  shy  and  lonely,  some 
what  embarrassed  by  the  new  coat  which  his  mother  called 
a  surtoo  and  regarded  with  respect,  dismayed  by  the  ne 
cessity  of  entering  shops  and  making  purchases  for  himself, 
and  standing  a  little  in  awe  of  the  other  students  and  of  the 
breakfast  to  which  the  professor  had  invited  him — Cosmo 
began  the  battle  of  his  life. 

He  was  now  nearly  seventeen,  young  enough  to  be  left 
by  himself  in  that  little  lantern  and  watch-house  hanging 
high  over  the  picturesque  heights  and  hollows  of  the  beau 
tiful  old  town,  where  the  lad  sat  at  his  window  in  the  winter 
evenings,  watching  the  gorgeous  frosty  sunset,  how  it  pur 
pled  with  royal  gleams  and  shadows  all  the  low  hills  of  Fife, 
and  shed  a  distant  golden  glow — sometimes  a  glow  redder 
and  fiercer  than  gold — upon  the  chilly  glories  of  the  Firth. 
Then,  as  the  light  faded  from  the  western  horizon,  and  Inch- 
keith  and  Inchcolm  no  longer  stood  out  in  vivid  relief  against 
the  illuminated  waters,  how  the  lights  of  the  town,  scarcely 
less  fairy-like,  began  to  steal  along  the  streets  and  to  sparkle 
out  in  the  windows,  hanging  in  irregular  lines  from  the 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  141 

many-storied  houses  at  the  other  side  of  the  North  Bridge, 
and  gleaming  like  glow-worms  in  the  dark  little  valley 
between. 

Cosmo  sat  at  his  window  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  but  did 
not  read  much — perhaps  the  lad  was  not  thinking  much 
either,  as  he  sat  in  the  silent  little  room,  listening  to  all  the 
voices  of  all  the  population  beneath  him,  which  rose  in  a 
softened  swell  of  sound  to  his  high  window;  sometimes 
mournful,  sometimes  joyful,  sometimes  with  a  sharp  cry  in  it 
like  an  appeal  to  God,  sometimes  full  of  distinct  tones,  inar 
ticulate  yet  individual,  sometimes  sweet  with  the  hum  of 
children — a  great,  full,  murmuring  chorus  never  entirely  si 
lenced,  in  which  the  heart  of  humanity  seemed,  somehow,  to 
betray  itself,  and  reveal  unawares  the  unspeakable  blending 
of  emotions  which  no  one  man  can  ever  confess  for  himself. 

Cosmo,  who  had  spent  a  due  portion  of  his  time  in  his 
class-room,  had  taken  notes  of  the  lectures,  and  been,  if 
not  a  remarkably  devoted,  at  least  a  moderately  conscien 
tious  student,  often  found  himself  very  unwilling  to  light 
the  candle,  and  sometimes  even  let  his  fire  go  out,  in  the 
charmed  idleness  of  his  window-seat,  which  was  so  strangely 
different  from  his  old  meditative  haunt  in  the  old  castle, 
yet  which  absorbed  him  even  more — and  then  Mrs.  Purdie 
would  come  in  with  brisk  good-humor,  and  rate  him 
soundly  for  sitting  in  the  dark,  and  make  up  the  much- 
enduring  northern  coals  into  a  blaze  for  him,  and  sweep  the 
hearth,  and  light  the  candle,  and  bring  in  the  little  tray  with 
its  little  tea-pot  and  blue  and  white  cup  and  saucer,  and  the 
bread  and  butter — which  Cosmo  did  full  justice  to,  in  spite 
of  his  dreams.  When  she  came  to  remove  the  things  again, 
Mrs.  Purdie  would  stand  with  one  arm  a-kimbo  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  her  young  lodger  ;  perhaps  to  tell  him  that 
she  had  seen  the  Melrose  courier,  or  met  somebody  newly 
arrived  by  the  coach  from  Kirkbride,  or  encountered  an 
old  neighbor,  who  "  speered  very  kindly"  for  his  mother ;  or, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  confide  to  him  her  fear  that  the  lad 
from  the  Highlants  in  her  little  garret  overhead,  who  pro 
vided  himsel',  would  perish  with  cauld  in  this  frosty  weather, 
and  was  just  as  like  as  no'  to  starve  himsel',  and  didna  keep 
up  a  decent  outside,  puir  callant,  without  mony  a  sair  pinch 
that  naebody  kent  onything  about ;  or  that  her  other  lodg 
er,  who  was  also  a  student,  was  in  a  very  ill  way,  coining 


142  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

in  at  a'  the  hours. of  the  night,  and  spending  hard-won  sil- 
le;*,  and  that  she  would  be  very  glad  to  let  his  father  and 
mother  ken,  but  it  didna  become  her  to  tell  tales. 

These,  and  a  great  many  other  communications  of  the 
same  kind,  Mrs.  Purdie  relieved  her  mind  by  making  to 
Cosmo,  whose  youth  and  good-looks  and  local  claims  upon 
her  regard,  made  him  a  great  favorite  with  the  kind-hearted, 
childless  woman,  who  compounded  "  scones  "  for  his  tea, 
and  even  occasionally  undertook  the  trouble  of  a  pudding, 
"  a  great  fash  and  fyke,"  as  she  said  to  herself,  puddings 
being  little  in  favor  with  humble  Scotchwomen  of  her  class. 

Under  the  care  of  this  motherly  attendant,  Cosmo  got 
on  very  well  in  his  little  Edinburgh  lodging,  and  even  in 
some  degree  enjoyed  the  solitude  which  was  so  new  and  so 
strange  to  the  home-bred  boy.  He  used  to  sally  out  early 
in  the  morning,  perhaps  to  climb  as  far  as  St.  Anthony's 
Chapel,  or  mount  the  iron  ribs  of  the  Crags,  to  watch  the 
early  mists  breaking  over  the  lovely  country,  and  old  Edin 
burgh  rising  out  of  the  cloud  like  a  queen — or  perhaps  only 
to  hasten  along  the  cheerful  length  of  Princes  Street,  when 
the  same  mists  parted  from  the  crags  of  the  Castle,  or  lay 
white  in  the  valley.  The  boy  knew  nothing  about  his  own 
sentiments,  what  manner  of  fancies  they  were,  and  did  not 
pause  to  inquire  whether  any  one  else  thought  like  him. 
He  hurried  in  thereafter  to  breakfast,  fresh  and  blooming, 
and  then  with  his  books  to  college,  encountering  often 
enough  that  grave,  gaunt  Highlander  in  the  garret,  who 
had  no  time  for  poetic  wanderings,  and  perhaps  not  much 
capacity,  but  who  struggled  on  towards  his  own  aim,  with  a 
desperate  fortitude  and  courage,  which  no  man  of  his  name 
ever  surpassed  in  a  forlorn  hope,  or  on  a  battle-field.  The 
Highland  student  was  nearly  thirty,  a  man  full  grown  and 
labor-hardened,  working  his  way  through  his  "  humanity" 
and  Divinity  classes,  looking  forward,  as  the  goal  of  his  am 
bition,  to  some  little  Gaelic-speaking  parish  in  the  far  north, 
where  some  day,  perhaps,  the  burning  Celtic  fervor,  im 
prisoned  under  his  slow  English  speech  and  impenetrable 
demeanor,  might  make  him  the  prophet  of  his  district ;  and 
as  he  entered  day  by  day  at  the  same  academic  gates,  side- 
by-side  with  the  seventeen-year-old  boy,  a  strange  tender 
ness  for  the  lad  came  into  the  man's  heart.  They  grew 
friends  shyly  yet  warmly,  unlike  as  they  were,  though 


THE     LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  143 

Cosmo  never  was  admitted  to  any  of  those  secrets  of  his 
friend's  menage,  which  Mrs.  Purdie  guessed  at,  but  which 
Cameron  would  never  have  forgiven  any  one  for  finding 
out ;  and  next  to  the  household  of  Norlaw,  and  the  strange, 
half-perceived  knowledge  that  came  stealing  to  his  mind, 
like  a  fairy,  in  his  vigils  by  his  window,  Cameron  was 
Cosmo's  first  experience  of  what  he  was  to  meet  in  life. 

The  Highlander  lived  in  his  garret,  you  could  not  believe 
or  understand  how,  gentleman-commoner — and  would  have 
tossed,  not  only  your  shoes,  but  you  out  of  his  high  window, 
had  you  tried  to  be  benevolent  to  him,  as  you  tried  it  once 
to  that  clumsy  sizar  of  Pembroke ;  notwithstanding,  he  was 
no  ignoble  beginning  for  a  boy's  friendship,  a  fact  which 
Cosmo  Livingstone  had  it  in  him  to  perceive. 


CHAPTEE    XXX. 

"  I  MEAN  to  call  on  Miss  Logan  at  the  manse  to-day," 
said  Patricia  Huntley,  as  she  took  her  place  with  great 
dignity  in  "  the  carriage,"  which  she  had  previously  em 
ployed  Joanna  to  bully  Melmar  into  ordering  for  her  con 
veyance.  Mrs.  Huntley  was  too  great  an  invalid  to  make 
calls,  and  Aunt  Jean  was  perfectly  impracticable  as  a  com 
panion,  so  Patricia  armed  herself  with  her  mother's  card- 
case,  and  set  out  alone. 

Alone,  save  for  the  society  of  Joanna,  who  was  glad 
enough  of  a  little  locomotion,  but  did  not  much  enjoy  the 
call-making  portion  of  the  enterprise.  Joanna,  whom  no 
pains,  it  was  agreed,  could  persuade  into  looking  genteel, 
had  her  red  hair  put  up  in  bows  under  her  big  bonnet,  and 
a  large  fur  tippet  on  her  shoulders.  Her  brown  merino 
frock  was  short,  as  Joanna's  frocks  invariably  became  after 
a  few  weeks'  wearing ;  and  the  abundant  display  of  ankle 
appearing  under  it  said  more  for  the  strength  than  the 
elegance  of  its  proprietor.  Patricia,  for  her  part,  wore  a 
colored  silk  cloak,  perfectly  shapeless,  and  as  long  as  her 
dress,  with  holes  for  her  arms,  and  a  tippet  of  ermine  to 
complete  it.  It  was  a  dress  which  was  very  much  admired, 
and  "  quite  the  fashion"  in  those  days  ;  when  the  benighted 


144  THE     LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

individuals  who  wore  such  vestments  actually  supposed 
themselves  as  well-dressed  as  we  have  the  comfort  of  know 
ing  ourselves  now. 

"For  I  am  sure,"  said  Patricia,  as  they  drove  along 
towards  Kirkbride,  "  that  there  is  some  mystery  going  on. 
I  am  quite  sure  of  it.  I  never  will  forget  how  shamefully 
papa  treated  me  that  day  Mr.  Cassilis  was  at  Melmar — 
before  a  stranger  and  a  gentleman  too !  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do,  Joanna,  how  often  that  poor  creature,  White- 
law,  from  Melrose,  has  been  at  our  house  since  then." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Joanna,  carelessly.  "  I  wonder 
what  Katie  Logan  will  say  when  she  knows  I'm  going  to 
school ?" 

"What  a  selfish  thing  you  are,  always  thinking  about 
your  own  concerns,"  said  Patricia ;  "  do  you  hear  what  I 
say  ?  I  think  there's  a  mystery — I'm  sure  there's  a  secret — 
either  papa  is  not  the  right  proprietor,  or  somebody  else  has 
a  claim,  or  there's  something  wrong.  He  is  always  making 
us  uncomfortable  some  way  or  other ;  wouldn't  it  be  dread 
ful  if  we  were  all  ruined  and  brought  to  poverty  at  the  end  ?" 

"Ruined  and  brought  to  poverty?  it  would  be  very 
good  fun  to  see  what  mamma  and  you  would  do,"  cried 
the  irreverent  Joanna.  "jT  could  do  plenty  things;  but 
I'm  no'  feared — it's  you,  that's  always  reading  story-books." 

"It's  not  a  story-book;  I  almost  heard  papa  say  it,"  said 
Patricia,  reddening  slightly. 

"  Then  you've  been  listening !"  cried  her  bolder  sister. 
"  I  would  scorn  to  do  that.  I  wonld  ask  him  like  a  man 
what  it  was,  if  it  was  me,  but  I  wouldna  go  stealing  about 
the  passages  like  a  thief.  I  wouldna  do  it  for  twice  Melmar 
— nor  for  all  the  secrets  in  the  world  !" 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  violent,  Joanna !  my  poor 
nerves  can  not  stand  it,"  said  Patricia ;  "  a  thoughtless  crea 
ture  like  you  never  looks  for  any  information,  but  I'm  older, 
and  I  know  we've  no  fortunes  but  what  papa  can  give  us, 
and  we  need  to  think  of  ourselves.  Think,  Joanna,  if  you 
can  think.  If  anybody  were  to  take  Melmar  from  papa, 
what  would  become  of  you  and  me  ?" 

"  You  and  me  !"  the  girl  cried,  in  great  excitement.  "  I 
would  think  of  Oswald  and  papa  himsel',  if  it  was  true.  Me  ! 
I  could  nurse  bairns,  or  keep  a  school,  or  go  to  Australia, 
like  Huntley  Livingstone.  I'm  no'  feared  !  and  it  would  be 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  145 

fun  to  watch  yow,  what  you  would  do.  But  if  papa  had 
cheated  anybody  and  was  found  out — oh,  Patricia!  could 
you  think  of  yourself  instead  of  thinking  on  that  ?" 

"  When  a  man  does  wrong,  and  ruins  his  family,  he  has 
no  nght  to  look  for  any  thing  else,"  said  Patricia. 

"  I  would  hate  him,"  cried  Joanna,  vehemently,  "  but  I 
wouldna  forsake  him — but  it's  all  havers ;  we've  been  at 
Melmar  almost  as  long  as  I  can  mind,  and  never  any  one 
heard  tell  of  it  before." 

"  I  mean  to  hear  what  Katie  Logan  says — for  Mr.  Cassilis 
is  her  cousin,"  said  Patricia,  "  and  just  look,  there  she  is,  on 
the  road,  tying  little  Isabel's  bonnet.  She's  just  as  sure  to 
be  an  old  maid  as  can  be — look  how  prim  she  is  !  and  never 
once  looking  to  see  what  carriage  it  is,  as  if  carriages  were 
common  at  the  manse.  Don't  call  her  Katie,  Joanna;  call 
her  Miss  Logan  ;  I  mean  to  show  her  that  there  is  a  differ 
ence  between  us  and  the  minister's  daughter  at  Kirk- 
bride." 

"And  I  mean  no  such  thing,"  cried  Joanna,  with  her  head 
half  out  at  the  window  ;  "she's  worth  the  whole  of  us  put 
together,  except  Oswald  and  Auntie  Jean.  Katie !  Katie 
Logan  !  we're  going  to  the  manse  to  see  you — oh  don't  run 
away !" 

The  day  was  February,  cold  but  sunny,  and  the  manse 
parlor  was  almost  as  bright  in  this  wintry  weather  as  it  had 
been  in  summer.  The  lire  sparkled  and  crackled  with  an 
exhilaration  in  the  sound  as  well  as  the  warmth  and  glow 
it  made,  and  the  sunshine  shone  in  at  the  end  window, 
through  the  leafless  branches,  with  a  ruddy  wintry  cheerful 
ness,  which  brightened  one's  thoughts  like  good  news  or  a 
positive  pleasure.  There  were  no  stockings  or  pinafores  to 
be  mended,  but  instead,  a  pretty  covered  basket,  holding  all 
Katie's  needles  and  thread,  and  scraps  of  work  in  safe  and 
orderly  retirement,  and  at  the  bright  window,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  china  flower-pot,  a  little  group  of  snow-drops,  the 
earliest  possibility  of  blossom,  hung  their  pale  heads  in  the 
light.  Joanna  Huntley  threw  herself  into  the  minister's 
own  easy-chair  with  a  riotous  expression  of  pleasure. 

"  Fires  never  burn  as  if  they  liked  to  burn  in  Melmar," 
cried  Joanna ;  "  oh,  Katie  Logan,  what  do  you  do  to  yours  ? 
for  every  thing  looks  as  if  somethiug  pleasant  happened  here 
every  day." 


146  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

"Something  pleasant  is  always  happening,"  said  Katie, 
with  a  smile. 

"  It  depends  upon  what  people  think  pleasure,"  said  Pa 
tricia.  "  I  am  sure  you  that  have  so  much  to  do,  and  all 
your  little  brothers  and  sisters  to  look  after,  and  no  society, 
should  be  worse  off  than  me  and  Joanna ;  but  it's  very  sel 
dom  that  any  thing  pleasant  happens  to  us." 

"  Never  mind  her,  Katie.  Listen  to  me.  I'm  going  to 
Edinburgh  to  school,"  cried  Joanna.  "  I  don't  know 
whether  to  like  it  or  to  be  angry.  What  would  you  do,  if 
you  were  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  fancy  myself  you,  Joanna,"  said 
Katie,  laughing ;  "  but  I  should  have  liked  it  when  I  was 
younger,  and  had  less  to  do.  I'm  to  go  in  with  papa  if  he 
goes  to  the  Assembly  this  May.  We  have  friends  in  Edin 
burgh,  and  I  like  it  for  that — besides  the  Assembly  and  all 
the  things  country  folk  see  there." 

"  But  Edinburgh  is  a  very  poor  place  after  being  in  Lon 
don,"  said  Patricia ;  "  if  you  could  only  see  Clapham,  where 
I  was  at  school !  But  Mr.  Cassilis  is  a  cousin  of  yours — is 
he  not  ?  I  suppose  he  told  you  how  papa  behaved  to  me 
when  he  was  last  at  Melmar." 

"  No,  indeed — he  did  not,"  said  Katie,  with  some  curi 
osity. 

"  Oh !  I  thought  perhaps  he  noticed  it,  being  a  stranger," 
said  Patricia ;  "  do  you  know  what  was  his  business  with 
papa  ?" 

"  No." 

"  You  might  tell  us — for  we  ought  to  hear,  if  it  is  any 
thing  important,"  said  Patricia ;  "  and  as  for  papa,  he  never 
lets  us  know  any  thing  till  everybody  else  has  heard  it  first. 
I  am  sure  it  was  some  business,  and  business  which  made 
papa  as  cross  as  possible  ;  do  tell  us  what  it  was." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  it,"  said  Katie.  "  My 
cousin  staid  here  only  two  or  three  days,  and  he  never  spoke 
of  business  to  me." 

"  Oh !  but  you  know  what  he  came  here  about,"  insisted 
Patricia. 

"  He  came  to  see  us,  and  also — oh,  yes — to  manage  some 
thing  for  the  Livingstones,  of  Norlaw,"  said  Katie,  with  a 
slight  increase  of  color. 

For  the  moment  she  had  actually  forgotten  this  last  and 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  147 

more  important  reason  for  the  visit  of  the  young  lawyer, 
having  a  rather  uncomfortable  impression  that  "  to  see  us" 
was  a  more  urgent  inducement  to  Cousin  Charlie  than  it  had 
better  be.  She  paused  accordingly  with  a  slight  embarrass 
ment,  and  began  to  busy  herself  opening  her  work  basket. 
Patricia  Huntley  was  not  a  person  of  the  liveliest  intelligence 
in  general,  but  she  was  quick-sighted  enough  to  see  that 
Katie  stumbled  in  her  statement,  and  drew  up  her  small 
shoulders  instantly  with  two  distinct  sentiments  of  jealous 
offense  and  disapproval,  the  first  relating  to  the  presumption 
of  the  minister's  daughter  in  appropriating  the  visit  of  Cas- 
silis  to  herself,  and  the  second  to  a  suggestion  of  the  possible 
rivalry,  which  could  affect  the  house  of  Melmar  in  the  family 
of  Norlaw. 

"I  think  we  are  never  to  be  done  with  these  Living 
stones,"  cried  Patricia,  "and  all  because  the  old  man  owed 
papa  a  quantity  of  money.  We  can't  help  it  when  people 
owe  us  money,  and  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  surprised  at 
Mr.  Cassilis,  if  he  came  to  annoy  papa  about  a  thing  like 
that.  I  thought  he  was  a  gentleman !  I  thought  it  must 
be  something  important  he  came  to  say." 

"Perhaps  it  might  be,"  said  Katie,  quietly,  coloring 
rather  more,  but  losing  her  embarrassment;  "and  the  more 
important  it  was,  the  less  likely  is  it  that  my  cousin  would 
tell  it  to  any  one  whom  it  did  not  concern.  Mr.  Huntley 
could  answer  your  questions  better  than  I." 

"  Oh,  I  see  you're  quite  offended.  I  see  you're  quite 
offended.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Cassilis  was  any 
particular  kind  of  cousin,"  said  Patricia,  spitefully.  "  If  I 
had  known  I  should  have  taken  care  how  I  spoke ;  but  if 
my  papa  was  like  yours,  and  was  not  very  able  to  afford  a 
housekeeper,  it  would  need  to  be  another  sort  of  a  man 
from  Mr.  Cassilis  who  could  make  me  go  away  and  leave 
my  home." 

"  Katie,  you  should  flyte  upon  her,"  said  Joanna.  "  She 
does  not  understand  any  thing  else — never  mind  her — talk 
to  me — are  all  the  Livingstones  away  but  Cosmo  ?  Patricia 
thinks  there's  a  mystery  and  papa's  wronged  somebody.  If 
he  has,  it's  Norlaw." 

"  I  don't  think  any  thing  of  the  sort— hold  your  tongue, 
Joanna,"  said  her  sister. 

"  Eh,  what  else  ?"  cried  the  young  lady,  roused  to  recrimi- 


148  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

nation.  "  Katie,  do  you  think  Mrs.  Livingstone  knows?  for 
I  would  go  and  ask  her  in  a  minute.  I  would  not  forsake 
papa  if  he  was  poor,  but  if  he's  wronged  anybody,  I'll  no' 
stand  it — for  it  would  be  my  blame  as  well  as  his  the  mo 
ment  I  knew !" 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  any  thing  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Katie,  with  spirit,  "  nor  Patricia  either.  Girls  were  not  set 
up  to  keep  watch  over  their  fathers  and  mothers ;  are  you 
the  constable  at  Mehnar,  Joanna,  to  keep  everybody  in 
order  ?  I  wish  you  were  at  the  manse  sometimes  when  the 
boys  have  a  holiday.  Our  Johnnie  would  be  a  match  for 
you.  The  Livingstones  are  all  away, — Cosmo,  too;  he's 
gone  to  college  in  Edinburgh,  and  some  day,  perhaps, 
you'll  hear  him  preach  in  Kirkbride." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  papa  would  not  give  him  the  presenta 
tion  ;  he's  promised  it  to  a  cousin  of  our  own,"  said  Patricia, 
eagerly. 

Katie  grew  very  red,  and  then  very  pale. 

"  My  father  is  minister  of  Kirkbride,"  she  said,  with  a 
great  deal  of  simple  dignity ;  "  there  is  no  presentation  in 
anybody's  power  just  now." 

"  Katie,  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  to  her,  she's  a  cat !" 
cried  Joanna,  with  intense  disgust,  turning  her  back  upon 
her  sister ;  "  oh  I  wish  you  would  write  Cosmo  to  come  and 
see  me!  I'll  be  just  the  same  as  at  college,  too;  and  I'm 
sure  I'll  like  him  a  great  deal  better  than  any  of  the  girls. 
Or,  never  mind ;  if  that's  not  right,  I'll  be  sure  to  meet  him 
in  the  street.  I'm  to  go  next  week,  Katie,  and  there's  a 
French  governess  and  a  German  master,  and  an  Italian 
master,  and  nothing  but~  vexation  and  trouble.  It's  quite 
true,  and  we're  not  even  to  speak  our  own  tongue,  but  jabber 
away  at  French  from  morning  to  night.  English  is  far  bet 
ter — I  know  I'll  quarrel  with  them  a'." 

"  Do  you  call  your  language  English,  Joanna  ?"  said  her 
sister,  with  contempt. 

"If  it's  no'  English  it's  Scotch,  and  that's  far  better," 
cried  Joanna,  with  an  angry  blush ;  "  wha  cares  for  Eng 
lish  ?  They  never  say  their  r's  and  their  h's,  except  when 
they  shouldna  say  them,  and  they  never  win  the  day  except 
by  guile,  and  they  canna  do  a  thing  out  of  their  own  head 
till  Scotsmen  show  them  how!  and  it's  a'  true,  and  I'd 
rather  be  a  servant-maid  in  Melmar,  than  one  of  your  Clap- 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW.  149 

ham  fine  ladies,  so  you  needna  speak  your  English  either  to 
Katie  or  me." 

And  it  must  be  confessed  that  Katie,  sensible  as  she  was, 
laughed  and  applauded,  and -that  poor  little  Patricia,  who 
could  find  nothing  heroical  to  say  on  behalf  of  Clapham, 
was  very  much  disposed  to  cry  with  vexation,  and  only 
covered  her  defeat  by  a  retreat  to  the  carriage,  where 
Joanna  followed,  only  after  a  few  minutes'  additional  con 
versation  with  Katie,  who  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  aid 
the  elder  sister.  When  they  were  gone,  however,  Katie 
Logan  shook  her  wise  little  elder-sisterly  head  over  the  pair 
of  them.  She  thought  if  Charlie  (which  diminutive  in  the 
manse  meant  Charlotte)  and  Isabel  grew  up  like  Patricia 
and  Joanna,  she  would  "break  her  heart;"  and  the  little 
mistress  of  the  manse  went  into  the  kitchen  to  oversee  the 
progress  of  a  birthday  cake  and  give  her  homely  orders, 
without  once  thinking  of  the  superior  grandeur  of  the 
carriage,  as  it  rolled  down  the  slope  of  the  brae  and 
through  the  village,  the  scene  of  a  continued  and  not  very 
temperate  quarrel  between  the  two  daughters  of  Melraar, 
which  was  only  finished  at  last  by  the  sudden  giving  way 
of  Patricia's  nerves  and  breath,  to  the  most  uncomfortable 
triumph  of  Joanna.  Joanna  kept  sulkily  in  her  corner,  and 
refused  to  alight  while  the  other  calls  were  made.  On  the 
whole,  it  was  not  a  very  delightful  drive. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THREE  months  later,  in  the  early  sweetness  of  May, 
Cosmo  Livingstone  stood  upon  an  "  outside  stair,"  one  of 
those  little  nights  of  stone  steps,  clearing  the  half-cellar 
shops  of  the  lowest  story,  which  are  not  unfrequent  in  the 
High  Street  of  Edinburgh,  and  which  make  a  handy  plat 
form  when  any  thing  is  to  be  seen,  or  place  of  refuge  when 
any  thing  is  to  be  escaped  from.  A  little  further  down, 
opposite  to  him,  was  the  Tron  Church,  with  its  tall  steeple 
striking  up  into  the  sunny  mid-day  heavens ;  and  above,  at 
a  little  distance,  the  fleecy  white  clouds  hung  over  the  open 
crown  of  St.  Giles's,  with  the  freshness  of  recent  ram. 


350  THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW 

Many  bystanders  stood  on  the  other  "  stair-heads,"  and 
groups  of  heads  looked  out  from  almost  every  window  of 
the  high  houses  on  every  side.  The  High  Street  of  Edin 
burgh,  lined  with  expectant  -lookers-on,  darkening  down 
wards  towards  the  picturesque  slope  of  the"  Canongate,  with 
its  two  varied  and  noble  lines  of  lofty  old  houses,  black  with 
time,  between  which  the  sunshine  breaks  down  in  a  moied 
and  streamy  glory,  as  into  a  well,  is  no  contemptible  object 
among  street  sights ;  and  the  population  of  Edinburgh  loves 
its  streets  as  perhaps  only  the  populations  of  places  rich  in 
natural  beauty  can  love  them.  A  man  who  has  seen  a 
crowd  in  the  High  Street  might  almost  be  tempted  to 
doubt,  indeed,  whether  the  Scottish  people  were  really  so 
reserved  and  grave  and  self-restraining  as  common  report 
pronounces  them.  The  women  on  the  landings  of  the 
stairs  shrilly  claiming  here  and  there  a  Tarn  or  a  Sandy,  or 
else  discussing  in  chorus  the  event  of  the  moment ;  the 
groups  of  men  promenading  up  and  down  upon  the  pave 
ment  with  firm-set  mouth  and  gleaming  eyes — the  mutter 
of  forcible  popular  sentiment  saying  rather  more  than  it 
means,  and  saying  that  in  the  plainest  and  most  emphatic 
words ;  and  the  stir  of  general  excitement  in  a  scene  which 
has  already  various  recollections  of  tumults  which  are  his 
torical,  make  altogether  a  picturesque  and  striking  combi 
nation,  which  is  neither  like  a  Parisian  mob  nor  a  London 
one,  yet  is  quite  as  characteristic  as  either.  It  was  not, 
however,  a  mob  on  this  day,  when  Cosmo  Livingstone  stood 
on  the  stair-head  in  front  of  a  little  bookseller's  shop,  the 
owner  of  which,  in  high  excitement,  came  every  minute  or 
two  to  the  door,  uttering  vehement  little  sentences  to  the 
little  crowd  on  his  steps: — 

"  We'll  have  it  oot  o'  them  if  we  have  to  gang  to  St.  Ste 
phen's  very  doors  for't !"  cried  the  shopkeeper.  "  King 
William  had  better  mind  his  crown  than  mind  his  wife. 
We?re  no'  to  lose  the  Bill  for  a  German  whimsey.  Hey, 
laddies !  dinna  make  so  muckle  clatter — they're  coming  !  do 
ye  hear  them  ?" 

They  were  coming,  as  the  increased  hum  and  cluster  of 
the  bystanders  told  clearly  enough — an  extraordinary  pro 
cession  of  its  kind.  Without  a  note  of  music,  without  a 
tint  of  color,  with  a  tramp  which  was  not  the  steady  tramp 
of  trained  footsteps,  but  only  the  sound  of  a  slowly  ad- 


THE    LA.IRD     OF    NOKLA.W.  151 

vancing  crowd,  to  which  immense  excitement  gave  a  kind  of 
solemnity — a  long  line  of  men  in  their  common  dress,  unor- 
namented,  unattended,  keeping  a  mysterious  silence,  and 
carrying  a  few  flags,  black,  and  with  ominous  devices,  which 
only  the  strain  of  a  great  climax  of  national  feeling  could 
have  suffered  to  pass  without  that  ridicule  which  is  more 
fatal  than  state  prosecutions.  Nobody  laughed,  so  far  as 
we  are  aware,  at  the  skulls  and  cross-bones  of  this  voiceless 
procession  ;  and  the  tramp  of  that  multitude  of  men,  timed 
and  cheered  by  no  music,  broken  by  no  shouts,  lightened  by 
no  gleam  of  weapons,  or  glitter  of  emblems,  or  variety  of 
color,  and  only  accompanied  by  the  agitated  hum  of  the 
bystanders,  had  a  very  remarkable  and  somewhat  "  grue 
some"  impressiveness.  The  people  who  were  looking  on 
grew  silent  gradually,  and  held  their  breath  as  the  long 
train  went  slowly  past.  It  might  not  be  a  formidable  band. 
Punch — if  Punch  had  been  in  those  days — might  very 
likely  have  found  a  comfortable  amount  of  laughter  in  the 
grim  looks  of  the  processionists,  who  were  not  likely  to  do 
much  in  justification  of  their  deadly-looking  flags.  But  the 
occasion  was  a  remarkable. occasion  in  the  national  history; 
the  excitement  wras  such — so  general  and  overpowering — as 
no  subsequent  agitation  has  been  able  to  equal.  The  real 
force  of  popular  emotion  in  it  covered  even  its  own  mock- 
heroics,  which  is  no  small  thing  to  say  ;  and  there  was  some 
thing  solemn  in  the  unanimity  of  so  many  sober  persons, 
who  were  not  under  the  immediate  sway  and  leadership  of 
any  demagogue,  nor  could  be  supposed  to  look  for  personal 
advantages,  and  whose  extreme  fervor  and  excitement  at 
the  same  time  were  not  revolutionary,  but  simply  political, 
The  "Bill,1'  on  which  the  popular  hope  had  fixed  itself,  had 
just  met  with  one  of  its  failures,  and  this  wTas  the  exagger 
ated,  yet  expressive  way  in  which  the  Edinburgh  crowd 
demonstrated  the  popular  sentiment  of  the  day. 

These  things  can  not  be  judged  in  cold  blood  ;  at  that  time 
everybody  was  excited.  Cosmo  Livingstone,  white  with 
boyish  fervor,  watched  and  counted  them  as  they  passed, 
with  irresistible  exclamations — "  twenty,  forty,  sixty,  eighty, 
a  hundred  !•'  the  boy  cried  aloud  with  triumph,  as  score  after 
score  went  past ;  and  the  women  on  the  lower  steps  of  the 
stair  began  to  share  his  calculations  and  exult  in  them.  The 
very  children  beneath,  who  were  looking  on  with  restless 


152  THE     LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW 

and  excited  curiosity,  knew  something  about  the  "  Bill," 
which  day  by  day,  as  the  coach  from  the  south,  with  the 
London  mails,  came  in,  they  had  been  sent  to  learn  tidings 
of;  and  the  bookseller  in  the  little  shop  could  not  restrain 
himself. 

"  There  will  be  news  of  this !"  he  cried,  as  the  last  de 
tachment  passed ;  "  when  the  men  of  Edinburgh  take  up  a 
matter,  nothing  can  stand  before  them.  There  ne'er  was  a 
march  like  it  that  I  ever  heard  o'  in  a'  my  reading.  Kings, 
Lords,  and  Commons — I  defy  them  to  stand  against  it — how 
many  ? — hurra  for  Auld  Reekie  !  Our  lads,  when  they  do 
a  thing,  never  make  a  fool  o't.  Hark  to  the  tramp  of  them ! 
man,  it's  grand !" 

"  I've  seen  the  sodgers  out  for  far  less  in  my  day,"  said  an 
old  woman. 

"A  snuff  for  the  sodgers !"  cried  the  excited  shopkeeper, 
snapping  his  fingers  ;  "  'a  wheen  mercenaries,  selling  their 
bluid  for  a  trade.  They  daur  nae  mair  face  a  band  like  that 
than  I  dare  face  Munch  Meg." 

"  Oh,  Cosmo — Cosmo  Livingstone !"  cried  a  voice  from 
below  ;  "it's  me — look  this  way  ! — do  you  no'  mind  me  ? — 
I'm  Joanna ;  come  down  this  moment  and  tell  us  how  we're 
to  get  home." 

Cosmo  looked  down  through  the  railings,  close  to  the 
bottom  of  which  the  owner  of  the  voice  had  been  pressed 
by  the  crowd.  She  had  a  little  silk  umbrella  in  her  hand, 
with  the  end  of  which,  thrust  between  the  rails,  she  was 
impatiently,  and  by  no  means  lightly,  beating  upon  his  foot. 

An  elderly  person,  looking  very  much  frightened,  clung 
close  to  her  arm,  and  a  girl  somewhat  younger  stood  a  little 
apart,  looking  with  bright,  vivacious  eyes  and  parted  lips 
after  the  disappearing  procession. 

The  swarm  of  lads,  of  idle  women  and  children,  who  fol 
lowed  in  the  wake  of  the  Reformers,  as  of  every  other 
march,  had  overwhelmed  for  a  moment  this  little  group, 
which  was  not  like  them ;  and  the  tumult  of  voices,  which 
rose  when  the  sight  was  over,  made  it  difficult  to  hear  even 
Joanna,  clear,  loud,  and  unhesitating  as  her  claim  was. 

"  Miss  Huntley  !"  cried  Cosmo,  with  a  momentary  start — 
but  it  was  not  so  much  to  witness  his  recognition  as  to  save 
his  foot  from  further  chastisement. 

"  It's  no'  Miss  Huntley — it's  me !"  cried  Joanna ;  "  we've 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW.  153 

lost  our  road — come  and  tell  us  how  we're   to  go.     Oh, 
madame,  don't  hold  so  fast  to  my  arm !" 

Cosmo  made  haste  to  swing  himself  down  over  the  rail 
ings,  when  Joanna's  elderly  companion  immediately  ad 
dressed  herself  to  him  in  a  long  and  most  animated  speech, 
which,  unfortunately,  however,  was  in  French,  and  entirely 
unintelligible  to  the  poor  boy.  He  blushed  violently,  and 
stood  listening  with  a  natural  deference,  but  without  the 
slightest  hope  of  comprehending  her — making  now  and 
then  a  faint  attempt  to  interrupt  the  stream.  Joanna  in  the 
meantime,  who  was  not  a  great  deal  more  enlightened  than 
he  was,  vainly  endeavored  to  stay  the  course  of  madame's 
eloquence  by  pulling  her  shawl  and  elbow. 

"  He  does  not  understand  you !  he  canna  understand 
you !"  cried  Joanna,  in  words  which  the  Frenchwoman 
comprehended  as  little  as  Cosmo  did  her  address. 

During  this  little  episode,  the  other  girl  stood  by  with  an 
evident  impulse  to  laughter,  and  a  sparkle  of  amusement  in 
her  black  eyes.  At  last  she  started  forward  with  a  rapid 
motion,  said  something  to  madame  which  succeeded  better 
than  the  remonstrances  of  Joanna,  and  addressed  Cosmo  in 
her  turn.  " 

"  Madame  says,"  said  the  lively  little  stranger,  "  that  she 
can  not  understand  your  countrymen — they  are  so  grave,  so 
impassionate,  so  sorrowful,  she  knows  not  if  they  march  in 
le  coi^p&e  f  timbre  or  go  to  make  the  barricades.  Madame 
says  there  is  no  music,  no  shouts,  no  voice.  She  demands 
what  the  jeune  Monsieur  thinks  of  a  so  grave  procession." 

"The  men  are  displeased,"  said  Cosmo,  hastily;  "they 
think  that  the  government  trifles  with  them,  and  they  warn 
it  how  they  feel.  They  don't  mean  to  make  a  riot,  or  break 
the  peace — we  call  it  a  demonstration  here." 

"  A  de-mon-stracion !"  said  the  little  Frenchwoman  ;  &  I 
shall  look  for  it  in  my  dictionary.  They  are  angry  with  the 
king — eh  Men  ! — why  do  not  they  fight  ?" 

"  Fight !  they  could  fight  the  whole  world  if  they  liked !» 
cried  Joanna ;  "  but  they  would  scorn  to  fight  for  ^every 
thing  like  people  that  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Desiree  and 
I  wanted  to  see  it,  Cosmo,  and  madame  did  not  know  in^the 
least  where  we  were  bringing  her  to — and  so  we  got  into 
the  crowd,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  get  back  to  Moray 
Place,  unless  you'll  show  us  the  way." 

7* 


154  THE    LAIRD     OP    NOKLAW. 

"  Madame  says,"  said  the  other  girl  laughing,  after  re 
ceiving  another  vehement  communication  from  the  gov 
erness,  "  that  ce  jeune  Monsieur  is  to  go  with  us  only  to 
Princes  Street — then  we  shall  find  our  own  way.  He  is  not 
to  go  with  you,  belle  Joanna ;  and  madame  demands  to 
know  what  all  the  people  say." 

"  What  all  the  people  say ! — they're  gossiping,  and  scold 
ing,  and  speaking  about  the  procession,  and  about  us,  and 
about  their  own  concerns,  and  about  every  thing,"  said  Jo 
anna  ;  "  and  how  can  I  tell  her  ?  Oh,  Cosmo,  I've  looked 
everywhere  for  you !  but  you  never  walk  where  we  walk ; 
and  I  saw  your  mother  at  the  church,  and  I  saw  Katie  Logan, 
and  I  told  Katie  to  write  you  word  to  come  and  see  me — 
but  everybody  teazes  us  to  death  about  being  proper; 
however,  come  along,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  everybody 
— wasn't  it  grand  to  see  the  procession  ?  Papa's  a  terrible 
Tory,  and  says  it'll  destroy  the  country — so  I  hope  they'll 
get  it.  Are  you  for  the  Reform  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cosmo,  but  the  truth  was,  the  boy  felt  con 
siderably  embarrassed  walking  onward  by  the  side  of  Jo 
anna,  with  the  governess  and  the  little  Frenchwoman  behind, 
talking  in  their  own  language  with  a  rapidity  which  made 
Cosmo  dizzy,  interrupted  by  occasional  bursts  of  laughter 
from  the  girl,  which  he,  being  still  very  young  and  inexpe 
rienced,  and  highly  self-conscious,  could  not  help  suspecting 
to  be  excited  by  himself — an  idea  which  made  him  exces 
sively  awkward.  However,  Joanna  trudged  along,  with  her 
umbrella  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  holding  up  the 
skirt  of  her  dress,  which,  however,  was  neither  very  long 
nor  very  wide.  Joanna's  tall  figure  might  possibly  be  hand 
some  some  day — but  it  Certainly  wanted  tilling  up  and 
rounding  in  the  meantime — and  was  not  remarkably  elegant 
at  present,  either  in  garb  or  gait. 

But  her  young  companion  was  of  a  very  different  aspect. 
She  was  little,  graceful,  light,  with  a  step  which,  even  in  the 
High  Street,  reminded  Cosmo  of  Jaacob's  bit  of  sentiment 
— "a  foot  that  rang  on  the  path  like  siller  bells" — with 
sparkling  black  eyes,  a  piquant  rosy  mouth,  and  so  bright 
and  arch  a  look,  that  the  boy  forgave  her  for  laughing  at 
himself,  as  he  supposed  she  was  doing.  Desiree ! — there  was 
a  charm  too  in  the  strange  foreign  name  which  he  could  not 
help  saying  over  to  himself — and  if  Joanna  had  been  less 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.         .  155 

entirely  occupied  with  talking  to  him,  she  could  not  have 
failed  to  notice  how  little  he  answered,  and  how  gravely  he 
conducted  the  party  to  Princes  Street,  from  whence  the 
governess  knew  her  way.  Joanna  shook  hands  with  Cosmo 
heartily  at  parting,  and  told  him  she  should  write  to  Katie 
Logan  to  say  she  had  seen  him — while  Desiree  made  him  a 
pretty  parting  salutation,  half  a  curtsey,  with  a  mischievous 
glance  out  of  her  bright  eyes,  and  madame  made  him  thanks 
in  excellent  French,  which  the  lad  did  not  appreciate. 

By  that  time,  as  he  turned  homeward,  Cosmo  had  for 
gotten  all  about  the  procession,  we  are  grieved  to  say,  and 
was  utterly  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  the  "Bill." 

He  was  quite  confused  in  his  thoughts,  poor  boy,  as  he 
betook  himself  to  his  little  room  and  his  high  window.  This 
half  frolic,  half  adventure,  which  gave  the  two  girls  a  little 
private  incident  to  talk  of,  such  as  girls  delight  in,  buzzed 
about  Cosmo's  brain  with  embarrassing  pleasure.  He  felt 
half  disposed  to  begin  learning  French  on  the  instant — not 
that  he  might  have  a  better  chance  of  improving  his  ac 
quaintance  with  Desiree — by  no  means — but  only  that  he 
might  never  feel  so  awkward  and  so  mortified  again  as  he 
did  to-day,  when  he  found  himself  addressed  in  a  language 
which  he  did  not  know. 


CHAPTEE    XXXII. 

COSMO  saw  nothing  more  of  Joanna  Huntley,  nor  of  her 
bright-eyed  companion  for  a  long  time.  He  fell  back  into 
his  old  loneliness,  with  his  high  window,  and  his  landlady, 
and  the  Highland  student  for  society.  Cameron,  whom  the 
boy  made  theories  about,  and  wistfully  contemplated  on  the 
uncomprehended  heights  of  his  maturer  age,  knew  a  good 
deal  by  this  time  of  the  history  of  the  Livingstones,  a  great 
deal  more  than  Cosmo  was  aware  of  having  told  him,  and 
had  heard  all  about  the  adventure  in  the  High  Street,  about 
Desiree's  laugh  and  the  old  French  grammar  which  Cosmo 
had  secretly  bought  at  a  book-stall. 

"  If  she  had  only  taken  to  Latin,  as  the  philosophers  used 
to  do  at  the  Reformation  time,"  cried  Cosmo,  with  a  little 


156  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

fun  and  a  great  deal  of  seriousness,  "  but  women  never  learn 
Latin  now-a-days.  "Why  shouldn't  they  ?" 

"  Does  it  do  us  so  much  good  ?"  said  Cameron,  brushing 
a  little  dust  carefully  from  the  sleeve  of  that  black  coat  of 
his,  which  it  went  to  his  heart  to  see  growing  rustier  every 
day,  and  casting  a  momentary  glance  of  almost  envy  at  the 
workmen  in  their  comfortable  fustian  jackets.  Cameron 
was  on  his  way  to  knock  the  "  Rudiments"  into  the  heads 
of  three  little  boys,  in  whose  service  the  gaunt  Highlander 
tasted  the  sweets  of "  private  tuition,"  so  that  at  the  mo 
ment  he  had  less  appreciation  than  usual  of  the  learning 
after  which  he  had  toiled  all  his  life. 

"If  any  one  loves  scholarship,  you  should !"  cried  Cosmo, 
with  a  little  enthusiasm. 

"  Why?"  said  the  elder  man,  turning  round  upon  him  with 
a  momentary  gleam  of  proud  offense  in  his  eye.  The  High 
lander  wanted  no  applause  for  the  martyrdoms  of  his  life. 
On  the  contrary,  it  galled  him  to  think  that  his  privations 
should  be  taken  into  account  by  any  one  as  proofs  of  his 
love  of  learning.  His  strong,  absolute,  self-denying  temper 
wanted  that  last  touch  of  frankness  and  candor  which  raises 
the  character  above  detraction  and  above  narrowness.  He 
could  not  acknowledge  his  poverty,  and  take  his  stand  upon 
it  boldly.  It  was  a  necessity  of  his  nature  to  conceal  what 
he  could  manfully  endure.  But  the  glance  which  rested  on 
Cosmo  softened. 

"  Letters  may  be  humane  and  humanizing,  Cosmo,"  said 
the  Highland  student,  with  a  little  humor ;  "  but  I  doubt  if 
men  feel  this  particular  influence  of  them  in  teaching  little 
callants.  I  don't  think,  in  a  general  way,  that  either  my 
genteel  boys  in  Fette's  Row,  or  my  little  territorial  villains 
in  St.  Mary's  Wynd,  improve  my  humanity." 

"  Yet  the  last,  at  least,  is  purely  a  voluntary  office  and 
labor  of  love,"  said  Cosmo,  earnestly. 

Cameron  smiled. 

"  I'm  but  a  limited  man,"  he  said ;  "  love  takes  but  nar 
row  bounds  with  the  like  of  me.  Two  or  three  at  the  most 
are  as  many  as  my  heart  can  hold.  Are  you  horrified  to 
hear  it,  Cosmo  ?  I'll  do  my  neighbor  a  good  turn  if  I  can, 
and  I'll  not  think  ill  of  him  if  I  can  help  it ;  but  love,  lad 
die,  love ! — that's  for  one  friend — for  a  mother  or — a  wife — 
not  for  every  common  man  or  every  bairn  I  see  in  the  street 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  157 

and  have  compassion  on.     No !     Love  is  a  different  con 
cern." 

"  Is  it  duty,  then  ?"  said  Cosmo,  with  a  small  shrug  of  his 
boyish  shoulders. 

"  Hush  !  If  I  can  not  love  every  man  I  see,  I  can  love 
Him  who  loves  all !"  said  the  Highlander,  raising  his  high 
head  with  an  unconscious  loftiness  and  elevation  of  gesture. 
Cosmo  made  no  answer  and  no  comment — -he  was  awed  for 
the  moment  with  the  personal  reality  of  that  heavenly 
affection  which  made  this  limited  earthly  man,  strong  in  his 
own  characteristic  individualities,  and  finding  it  impossible 
to  abound  in  universal  tenderness,  still  to  do  with  fervor 
those  works  of  the  Evangelist  which  were  for  love  of  One 
who  loved  the  all,  whom  he  himself  had  not  a  heart  expan 
sive  enough  to  love. 

When  Cameron  arrived  at  the  house  of  his  pupils,  Cosmo 
wandered  back  again  toward  the  region  of  his  friend's  un 
rewarded  labors  ; — ah  !  those  young  champions  of  Maudlin 
and  Trinity ! — what  a  difference  between  this  picture  and 
that.  Let  us  confess  that  the  chances  are  that  Cameron,  at 
the  height  of  his  hardly-earned  scholarship,  would  still  be  a 
world  behind  a  double-first ;  and  it  is  likely,  unless  sheer 
strength  had  done  it,  that  nothing  earthly  could  have  made 
a  stroke-oar  of  the  Highlandman.  If  any  one  could  have 
watched  him  through  the  course  of  one  of  his  laborious 
days,  getting  up  to  eat  his  rude  and  scanty  breakfast,  going 
out  to  his  lecture  and  classes,  from  thence  to  one  quarter  and 
another  to  his  pupils — little  boys  in  the  "Rudiments;"  from 
thence  to  St.  Mary's  Wynd  to  do  the  rough  pioneer  evan 
gelist  work  of  a  degraded  district — work  which  perhaps  his 
Divinity  professor,  perhaps  the  minister  of  his  church  urged 
upon  him  as  the  best  preparation  for  his  future  office — then 
home  to  his  garret  to  a  meal  which  he  would  not  have  liked 
any  one  to  see  or  share,  to  labor  over  his  notes,  to  read,  to 
get  up  his  college  work  for  the  next  day,  to  push  forward, 
steadily,  stoutly,  silently,  through  almost  every  kind  of  self- 
denial  possible  to  man. 

Then,  when  the  toilsome  session  was  over,  perhaps  the 
weary  man  went  home — not  to  Switzerland  or  Wales  with 
a  reading  party — not  to  shoot,  nor  to  fish,  nor  to  travel,  nor 
to  give  himself  up  to  the  pure  delights  of  uninterrupted 
study — perhaps,  instead,  to  return  to  weary  days  of  manual 


158  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

labor,  to  the  toils  of  the  field,  or  the  trials  of  the  school 
master  ;  or  perhaps  finding  the  expense  of  the  journey  too 
much  for  him,  or  thinking  it  inexpedient  to  risk  his  present 
pupils,  lingered  through  the  summer  in  Edinburgh,  teaching, 
reading,  pinching,  refreshing  himself  by  his  work  in  St. 
Mary's  Wynd.  The  result  of  all  this  was  not  an  elegant 
divine,  nor  an  accomplished  man  of  the  world — very  possi 
bly  it  might  be  an  arbitrary  optimist,  a  one-sided  Christian 
— but  it  was  neither  an  idle  nor  a  useless  man. 

Some  thoughts  of  this  kind  passed  through  the  mind  of 
Cosmo  Livingstone  as  he  went  through  the  same  St.  Mary's 
Wynd,  pondering  the  occupations  and  motives  of  his 
friend — the  only  comparison  which  he  made,  thinking  of 
Cameron,  was  with  himself;  forgetting  the  difference  of 
their  age  entirely,  as  such  a  boy  was  likely  to  do,  Cosmo 
could  not  be  sufficiently  disgusted  and  discontented  with  his 
own  dependence  and  worthlessness.  Then  he  had,  at  the 
present  moment,  no  particular  vocation  for  the  church.  St. 
Mary's  Wynd,  so  far  from  attracting  him,  even  failed  at  this 
moment  to  convey  to  the  visionary  lad  the  sentiment  which 
it  wrote  with  words  of  fire  upon  the  less  sensitive  mind  of 
Cameron.  Love  for  the  inhabitants  of" those  wretched  closes 
— for  the  miserable  squalid  forms  coming  and  going  through 
those  high,  dark,  narrow,  winding  stairs,  down  which  some 
times  a  stray  sunbeam,  piercing  through  a  dusty  window, 
threw  a  violent  glory  into  the  darkness,  like  a  Rembrandt  or 
an  indignant  angel,  seemed  something  impossible.  He  be 
lieved  in  the  universal  love  of  the  Lord,  but  it  only  filled 
him  with  awe  and  wonder — he  did  not  understand  it  as  Cam 
eron  did — and  Cosmo  could  not  see  how  reaching  ultimately 
into  the  position  of  teaching,  preaching,  laboring,  wearing 
out,  for  the  benefit  of  such  a  population,  was  worth  the  ter 
rible  struggle  of  preparation  which  at  present  taxed  all  the 
energies  of  his  friend.  He  repeated  to  himself  dutifully 
what  he  had  heard — that  to  save  a  soul  was  better  than  to 
win  a  kingdom — but  such  words  were  still  only  of  the  letter, 
and  not  of  the  spirit,  for  Cosmo.  And  he  was  glad  at  last 
to  escape  from  the  subject,  and  hasten  to  the  fresh  and  breezy 
solitude  of  the  hill,  which  was  not  a  mile  from  this  den  of 
misery,  yet  seemed  as  far  away  as  another  world. 

It  was  spring,  and  the  air  was  full  of  that  invigorating 
hopefulness,  which  was  none  the  worse  to  Cosmo  for  coming 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NORLAW.  159 

'••,  S 

on  a  somewhat  chilly  breeze.  The  glory  of  the  broad,  blue 
Firth,  with  its  islands  and  its  bays,  and  the  world  of  bright, 
keen,  sunny  air  in  which  its  few  sails  shone  with  a  dazzling 
indescribable  whiteness,  like  nothing  but  themselves — the 
round  white  clouds  ranging  themselves  in  lines  and  fantastic 
groups  over  the  whole  low  varied  line  of  the  opposite  coast 
— and  the  intoxication  of  that  free,  unbroken  breeze,  coming 
fresh  over  miles  of  country  and  leagues  of  sea,  lifted  Cosmo 
out  of  his  former  thoughts,  only  to  rouse  in  him  a  vague 
heroical  excitement — a  longing  after  something,  he  knew  not 
what,  which  any  tangible  shaping  would  but  have  vulgarized. 
The  boy  spread  out  his  arms  with  an  involuntary  enthusiasm, 
drinking  in  that  wine  of  youth.  What  would  he  do  ? — he 
stood  upon  the  height  of  the  hill  like  a  young  Mercury, 
ready  to  fly  over  all  the  world  on  the  errands  of  the  gods — 
but  even  the  voice  of  Jupiter,  speaking  out  of  the  clouds, 
would  only  have  been  prose  and  bathos  to  the  unconscious, 
unexplainable  poetic  elevation  of  the  lad,  who  neither  knew 
himself  nor  the  world. 

A  word  of  any  kind,  even  the  sublimest,  would  have 
brought  him  to  his  feet  and  to  a  vague  sense  of  shame  and 
self-ridicule  in  a  moment — which  consummation  happened  to 
him  before  he  was  aware. 

The  word  was  a  name — a  name  which  he  had  only  heard 
once  before — and  the  voice  that  spoke  it  was  at  some  dis 
tance,  for  the  sound  came  ringing  to  him,  faint  yet  clear, 
brightened  into  a  cry  of  pleasure  by  the  breath  of  the  hills 
on  which  it  came.  "  Desiree !"  The  boy  started,  blushed 
at  himself  in  the  awaking  of  his  dream,  and  pausing  only  a 
moment,  rushed  down  the  elope  of  Arthur's  Seat  toward 
Duddingstone,  where,  on  the  first  practicable  road  which  he 
approached,  he  perceived  a  solemn  procession  of  young  la 
dies,  two-and  two,  duly  officered  and  governed,  and  behav 
ing  themselves  irreproachably.  Cosmo  did  not  make  a  rush 
down  through  their  seemly  and  proper  ranks,  to  find  out 
Desiree  or  Joanna  ;  instead,  the  lad  watched  them  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  turned  round  laughing,  and  went  back  to 
his  lodging— laughing  the  shamefaced  rosy  laugh  of  his 
years,  when  one  can  feel  one  has  been  a  little  ridiculous 
without  feeling  one's  self  much  the  worse  for  it,  and  wben 
it  strikes  rather  comically  than  painfully  to  find  how  differ 
ent  one's  high-flown  fancies  are,  to  all  the  sober  arrange 
ments  of  the  every-day  world. 


160  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOKLAW. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  end  of  the  season  arrived,  Cosmo  came  home,  leav 
ing  his  fellow-student,  who  would  not  even  accept  an  in 
vitation  to  Norlaw,  behind  him  in  Edinburgh.  Cameron 
thought  it  half  a  weakness  on  his  part,  the  sudden  affection 
to  which  the  boy  had  moved  him,  but  he  would  not  yield 
so  much  to  it  as  to  lay  himself  under  "  an  obligation,"  nor 
suffer  any  one  to  suppose  that  any  motive  whatever,  save 
pure  liking,  mingled  in  the  unlikely  friendship  he  had  per 
mitted  himself  to  form.  Inveterate  poverty  teaches  its  vic 
tims  a  strange  suspiciousness  ;  he  was  half  afraid  that  some 
one  might  think  he  wanted  to  share  the  comforts  of  Cosmo's 
home ;  so,  as  he  was  not  going  home  himself,  he  remained 
in  Edinburgh,  working  and  sparing  as  usual,  and  once  more 
expanding  a  little  with  the  idea,  so  often  proved  vain  hither 
to,  of  getting  so  much  additional  work  as  to  provide  for 
his  next  session,  leaving  it  free  to  its  own  proper  studies ; 
and  Cosmo  returned  to  rejoice  the  hearts  of  the  women  in 
Norlaw. 

Who  found  him  grown  and  altered,  and  "  mair  manlike," 
and  stronger,  and  every  way  improved,  to  their  hearts'  con 
tent.  The  Mistress  was  not  given  to  caresses  or  demonstra 
tions  of  affection — but  when  the  lad  got  home,  and  saw  his 
mother's  eye  brighten,  and  her  brow  clear  every  time  she 
looked  at  him,  he  felt,  with  a  compunction  for  his  own  dis 
contented  thoughts,  of  how  much  importance  he  was  to  the 
widow,  and  tried  hard  to  restrain  the  instinct  of  wandering, 
which  many  circumstances  had  combined  to  strengthen  in 
his  mind,  although  he  had  never  spoken  of  it.  Discontent 
with  his  present  destination  for  one  thing ;  the  example  of 
Huntley  and  Patrick ;  the  perpetual  spur  to  his  energy 
which  had  been  before  him  during  all  his  stay  in  Edinburgh, 
in  the  person  of  Cameron ;  his  eager  visionary  desire  to 
seek  Mary  of  Melmar,  whom  the  boy  had  a  strong  fancy 
that  he  was  destined  to  iind ;  and,  above  and  beyond  all,  a 
certain  vague  ambition,  which  he  could  not  have  described 
to  any  one,  but  which  lured  him  with  a  hundred  fanciful 
charms — moved  him  to  the  new  world  and  the  unknown 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  161 

places,  which  charmed  chiefly  because  they  were  new  and 
unknown.  Cosmo  had  written  verses  secretly  for  a  year  or 
two,  andjately  had  sent  some  to  an  Edinburgh  paper, 
which,  miracle  of  fortune  !  published  them.  He  was  not 
quite  assured  that  he  was  a  poet,  but  he  thought  he  could 
be  something  if  he  might  but  reach  that  big,  glorious  world 
which  all  young  fancies  long  for,  and  the  locality  of  which 
dazzling  impossible  vision,  is  so  oddly  and  so  often  placed 
in  London.  Cosmo  was  not  sure  that  it  was  in  London — 
but  be  rather  thought  it  was  not  in  Edinburgh,  and  he  was 
very  confident  it  could  not  be  in  Norlaw. 

About  the  same  time,  Joanna  Huntley  came  home  for 
the  long  summer  holidays.  Joanna  had  persuaded  her 
father  into  giving  her  a  pony,  on  which  she  trotted  about 
everywhere  unattended,  to  the  terror  of  her  mother  and 
the  disgust  of  Patricia,  who  was  too  timid  for  any  such  im 
propriety.  Pony  and  girl  together,  on  their  rambles,  were 
perpetually  falling  in  with  Cosmo  Livingstone,  whom  Jo 
anna  rather  meant  to  make  a  friend  of,  and  to  whom  she 
could  speak  on  one  subject  which  occupied,  at  the  present 
time,  two  thirds  of  her  disorderly  thoughts,  and  deafened, 
with  perpetual  repetition,  the  indifferent  household  of 
Melmar. 

This  was  Desiree.  The  first  of  first  loves  for  a  girl  is 
generally  another  girl,  or  young  woman,  a  little  older  than 
herself;  and  nothing  can  surpass  the  devotion  of  the  wor 
shiper. 

Desiree  was  only  a  year  older  than  Joanna,  but  she  was 
almost  every  thing  which  Joanna  was  not ;  and  she  was 
French,  and  had  been  in  Paris  and  London,  and  was  of  a 
womanly  and  orderly  temper,  which  increased  the  difference 
in  years.  She  was,  for  the  time  being,  Joanna's  supreme 
mistress,  queen,  and  lady-love. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  saw  her,  Cosmo,"  cried  the  girl,  in 
one  of  their  encounters,  "  because  now  you'll  know  that 
what  I  say  is  true.  They  laugh  at  me  at  Melmar ;  and 
Patricia  (she's  a  cat!)  goes  on  about  her  Clapham  school, 
and  says  Desiree  is  only  a  little  French  governess — as  if  I 
did  not  know  better  than  that !" 

"  Is  she  a  governess  ?"  asked  Cosmo. 

"  She's  a  lady  !"  said  Joanna,  reddening  suddenly ;  "  but 
she  does  not  pay  as  much  as  we  do ;  and  she  talks  French 


162  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

with  the  girls,  and  sometimes  she  helps  the  little  ones  on 
with  their  music,  and— "but  as  for  a  governess  like  madame, 
or  like  Miss  Trimmer,  or  even  Mrs.  Payne  herself— she  is 
no  more  like  one  of  them  than  you  are.  Cosmo,  I  think 
Desiree  would  like  you  !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Cosmo,  with  a  boyish  blush  and 
laugh. 

Joanna,  however,  was  far  too  much  occupied  to  notice 
his  shamefacedness. 

"  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  would  like,"  she  said,  as  they 
went  on  together,  the  pony  rambling  along  at  its  own  will, 
with  the  reins  lying  on  its  neck,  while  Cosmo,  half-attracted, 
half-reluctant,  walked  by  its  side.  "  I  don't  think  I  should 
tell  you  either,"  said  Joanna,  "  for  I  don't  suppose  you  care 
about  us.  Cosmo  Livingstone,  I  am  sure,  if  I  were  you,  I 
would  hate  papa  ;  but  you'll  no'  tell — I  would  like  Desiree 
to  come  here  and  marry  my  brother  Oswald,  and  be  lady 
of  Melmar.  I  would  not  care  a  bit  what  became  of  me. 
Though  she's  French,  there's  nobody  like  her ;  and  that's 
just  what  I  would  choose,  if  I  could  choose  for  myself. 
Would  it  not  be  grand  ?  But  you  don't  know  Oswald — 
he's  been  away  nearly  as  long  as  I  can  mind  ;  but  he  writes 
me  letters  sometimes,  and  I  like  him  better  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  said  Cosmo. 

"  He's  in  Italy.  Whiles  he  writes  about  the  places, 
whiles  about  Melmar  ;  but  he  never  seems  to  care  for  com 
ing  home,"  said  Joanna.  "  However,  I  mean  to  write  him 
to  tell  him  he  must  come  this  summer.  Your  Huntley  is 
away  too.  Isn't  it  strange  to  live  at  home  always  the  same, 
and  have  so  near  a  friend  as  a  brother  far,  far  away,  and 
never,  be  able  to  know  what  he  is  doing  ?  Oswald  might 
be  ill  just  now  for  any  thing  we  know ;  but  I  mean  to  write 
and  tell  him  he  must  come  to  see  Desiree,  for  that  is  what  I 
have  set  my  heart  upon  since  I  knew  her  first." 

Joanna,  for  sheer  want  of  breath,  came  to  a  pause  ;  and 
Cosmo  made  no  reply.  He  walked  on,  rather  puzzled  by  the 
confidence  she  gave  him,  rather  troubled  by  this  other  side 
of  the  picture — the  young  man  in  Italy,  who  very  likely 
thought  himself  the  unquestionable  heir,  perfectly  entitled 
to  marry  and  bring  home  a  lady  of  Melmar.  The  whole 
matter  embarrassed  Cosmo.  Even  his  acquaintance  with 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW.  163 

Joanna,  which  was  not  of  his  seeking,  seemed  quite  out  of 
place  and  inappropriate.  But  the  girl  was  as  totally  uncon 
scious  as  the  pony  of  the  things  called  improprieties,  and 
had  taken  a  friendship  for  Cosmo  as  she  had  taken  a  love 
for  Desiree — partly  because  the  house  of  Norlaw  bore  a 
certain  romance  to  her  fancy — partly  because  "  papa  would 
be  mad" — and  partly  because,  in  all  honesty,  she  liked  the 
boy,  who  was  not  much  older,  and  was  certainly  more  re 
fined  and  gentle  than  herself.  Joanna  was  not  remarkably 
amiable  in  her  present  development,  but  she  could  appreciate 
excellence  in  others. 

"And  she's  beautiful,  too — don't  you  think  so?"  said 
Joanna ;  "  not  pretty,  like  Patricia,  nor  bonnie,  like  Katie 
Logan — but  beautiful.  I  wish  I  could  bring  her  to  Melmar 
— I  wish  Oswald  could  see  her — and  I'll  do  any  thing  in  the 
world  rather  than  let  Desiree  go  to  anybody's  house  like 
any  other  governess.  Isn't  it  a  shame  ?  A  delicate  little  lady 
like  her  has  to  go  and  tesch  little  brats  of  children,  and  me 
that  am  strong  and  big,  and  could  do  lots  of  things — I  never 
have  any  thing  to  do  !  I  don't  understand  it — they  say  it's 
providence.  I  would  not  make  things  be  like  that  if  it  was 
me.  What  do  you  think  ?  You  never  say  a  word.  I  sup 
pose  you  just  listen,  and  laugh  at  me  because  I  speak  every 
thing  out.  What  for  do  you  not  speak  like  a  man  ?" 

"  A  man  sometimes  has  nothing  to  say,  Miss  Huntley," 
said  Cosmo,  with  a  rather  whimsical  shyness,  which  he  was 
half-inclined  himself  to  laugh  at. 

"  Miss  Huntley! — I'm  Joanna  !"  cried  the  girl,  with  con 
tempt.  "  I  would  like  to  be  friends  with  you,  Cosmo,  be 
cause  papa  behaved  like  a  wretch  to  your  father ;  and  many 
u  time  I  think  I  would  like  to  come  and  help  Mrs.  Living 
stone,  or  do  any  thing  for  any  of  you.  I  canna  keep  in 
Melmar  in  a  corner,  and  never  say  a  word  to  vex  folk,  like 
Patricia,  and  I  canna  be  good,  like  Katie  Logan.  Do  you 
want  to  go  away  and  no'  to  speak  to  me  ?  You  can  if  you 
like — I  don't  care  !  I  know  I'm  no'  like  a  lady  in  a  ballad  ; 
but  neither  are  you  like  one  of  the  old  knights  of  Nor- 
law !" 

"  Not  if  you  think  me  rude,  or  dull,  or  ungrateful  for 
your  frankness  !"  cried  Cosmo,  touched  by  Joanna's  appeal, 
and  eager  to  make  amends;  but  the  girl  pulled  up  the 
pony's  reins,  and  darted  away  from  him  in  mighty  dudgeon, 


164  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

with  the  slightest  touch  of  womanish  mortification  and  shame 
heightening  her  childish  wrath.  Perhaps  this  was  the  first 
time  it  had  really  occurred  to  Joanna  that,  after  all,  there 
was  a  certain  soul  of  truth  in  the  proprieties  which  she 
hated,  and  that  it  might  not  be  perfectly  seemly  to  bestow 
her  confidence,  unasked,  upon  Cosmo — a  confidence  which 
was  received  so  coldly. 

She  comforted  herself  by  starting  off  at  a  pace  as  near  a 
gallop  as  she  and  her  steed  were  equal  to,  leaving  Cosmo 
rather  disconcerted  in  his  turn,  and  not  feeling  particularly 
pleased  with  himself,  but  with  many  thoughts  in  his  mind, 
which  were  not  there  when  he  left  Norlaw. 


CHAPTEE    XXXIV. 

DAY  by  day,  the  summer  went  over  Cosmo's  head,  leaving 
his  thoughts  in  the  same  glow  and  tumult  of  uncertainty,  for 
which,  now  and  then,  the  lad  blamed  himself  bitterly,  but 
which,  on  the  whole,  he  found  very  bearable.  Every  thing 
went  on  briskly  at  Norlaw.  The  Mistress,  thoroughly  occu 
pied,  and  feeling  herself,  at  last,  after  so  many  unprosperous 
years,  really  making  some  forward  progress,  daily  recovered 
heart  and  spirit,  and  her  constant  supervision  kept  every 
thing  alive  and  moving  in  the  house.  Here  Cosmo  filled  the 
place  of  natural  privilege  accorded  to  him  alike  as  the  young 
est  child  and  the  scholar-son.  Though  the  Mistress's  heart 
yearned  over  the  boys  who  were  away,  she  expected  to  be 
most  tenderly  proud  of  Cosmo,  whose  kirk  and  manse  she 
could  already  see  in  prospect. 

It  is  not  a  very  great  thing  to  be  a  minister  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland,  but,  in  former  days,  at  least,  when  the  Church 
was  less  divided  than  it  is  now,  the  people  of  Scotland  re 
garded  with  a  particular  tenderness  of  imagination  the  parish 
pastor.  He  was  less  elevated  above  his  Hock  than  the  Eng 
lish  rector,  and  sprang  very  seldom  from  the  higher  classes ; 
'but  even  among  wealthy  yeomen  families  in  the  country,  the 
manse  was  still  a  kind  of  beau  ideal  of  modest  dignity  and 


THE    LATKD    OF    NOEL  AW.  165 

comfort,  the  pride  and  favorite  fancy  of  the  people.  It  was 
essentially  so  to  the  Mistress,  whose  very  highest  desire  it 
had  been  to  move  her  boy  in  this  direction,  and  whose  pro 
ject  of  romance  now,  in  which  her  imagination  amused  itself, 
was,  above  all  other  things,  the  future  home  and  establish 
ment  of  Cosmo.  She  had  no  idea  to  what  extent  her  favorite 
idea  was  threatened  in  secret. 

For  the  moment,  however,  Melmar  and  their  connection 
with  that  house  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  everybody's 
mind  save  Cosmo's.  It  never  could  quite  pass  from  his  so 
long  as  he  took  his  place  at  sunset  in  that  vacant  window  of 
the  old  castle,  where  the  ivy  tendrils  waved  about  him,  and 
where  the  romance  of  Norlaw's  life  seemed  to  have  taken  up 
its  dwelling.  The  boy  could  not  help  wandering  over  the 
new  ground  which  Joanna  had  opened  to  him — could  not 
help  associating  that  Mary  of  Melmar,  long  lost  in  some  un 
known  country,  with  Oswald  Huntley,  a  stranger  from  home 
for  years;  and  the  boy  started  with  a  jealous  pang  of  pain 
to  think  how  likely  it  was  that  these  two  might  meet,  and 
that  another  than  his  father's  son  should  restore  the  inheri 
tance  to  its  true  heir.  This  idea  was  galling  in  the  extreme 
to  Cosmo.  He  had  never  sympathized  much  in  the  thought 
that  Melmar  was  Huntley's,  nor  been  interested  in  any  pro 
ceedings  by  which  his  brother's  rights  were  to  be  estab 
lished  ;  but  he  had  always  reserved  for  himself  or  for  Hunt- 
ley  the  prerogative  of  finding  and  reinstating  the  true  lady 
of  the  land,  and  Cosmo  was  human  enough  to  regard  "the 
present  Melmar"  with  any  thing  but  amiable  feelings.  He 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  being  left  out  entirely  in  the 
management  of  the  concern,  or  of  jane  of  the  Huntleys  ex 
ercising  this  champion's  office,  and  covering  the  old  usurpa 
tion  with  a  vail  of  new  generosity.  It  was  a  most  uncomfort 
able  view  of  the  subject  to  Cosmo,  and  when  his  cogitations 
came  to  that  point,  the  lad  generally  swung  himself  down 
from  his  window-seat  and  went  off  somewhere  in  high  ex 
citement,  scarcely  able  to  repress  the  instant  impulse  to  sling 
a  bundle  over  his  shoulder  and  set  off  upon  his  journey. 
But  he  never  could  rouse  his  courage  to  the  point  of  re 
opening  this  subject  with  his  mother,  little  witting,  foolish 
boy,  that  this  admirable  idea  of  his  about  Oswald  Huntley 
was  the  very  inducement  necessary  to  make  the  Mistress  as 
anxious  about  the  recovery  of  Mary  of  Melmar  as  he  him- 


166  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

self  was — and  the  only  thing  in  the  world  which  could  have 
done  so. 

It  happened  on  one  of  these  summer  evenings,  about  this 
time,  when  his  own  mind  was  exceedingly  restless  and  un 
settled,  that  Cosmo,  passing  through  Kirkbride  as  the 
evening  fell,  encountered  bowed  Jaacob  just  out  of  the  vil 
lage,  on  the  Melrose  road.  The  village  street  was  full  of 
little  groups  in  earnest  and  eager  discussion.  It  was  still 
daylight,  but  the  sun  was  down,  and  lights  began  to  sparkle 
in  some  of  the  projecting  gable  windows  of  the  Norlaw 
Arms,  beneath  which,  in  the  corner  where  the  glow  of  the 
smithy  generally  warmed  the  air,  a  little  knot  of  men  stood 
together,  fringed  round  with  smaller  clusters  of  women. 
A  little  bit  of  a  moon,  scarcely  so  big  as  the  evening  star 
which  led  her,  was  already  high  in  the  scarcely  shadowed 
skies.  Every  thing  was  still — save  the  roll  of  the  widow's 
mangle  and  the  restless  feet  of  the  children,  so  many  of 
them  as  at  this  hour  were  out  of  bed — and  most  of  the 
cottage  doors  stood  open,  revealing  each  its  red  gleam 
of  fire,  and  many  their  jugs  of  milk,  and  bowls  set  ready  on 
the  table  for  the  porridge  or  potatoes  which  made  the 
evening  meal.  On  the  opposite  brae  of  Tyne  was  visible 
the  minister,  walking  home  with  an  indescribable  conscious 
ness  and  disapproval,  not  in  his  face,  for  it  was  impossible 
to  see  that  in  the  darkness,  but  in  his  figure  and  bearing,  as 
he  turned  his  back  upon  his  excited  parishioners,  which 
was  irresistibly  ludicrous  when  one  knew  what  it  meant. 
Beyond  the  village,  at  the  opposite  extremity,  was  Jaacob, 
in  his  evening  trim,  with  a  black  coat  and  hat,  which  con 
siderably  changed  the  little  dwarf's  appearance,  without 
greatly  improving  it.  He  had  his  face  to  the  south,  and 
was  pushing  on  steadily,  clenching  and  opening,  as  .he 
walked,  the  great  brown  fist  which  came  so  oddly  out  of 
the  narrow  cuff  of  his  black  coat.  Cosmo,  who  was  quite 
ready  to  give  up  his  own  vague  fancies  for  the  general  ex 
citement,  came  up  to  Jaacob  quite  eagerly,  and  fell  into  his 
pace  without  being  aware  of  it. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Melrose  for  news  ?  I'll  go  with  you," 
said  Cosmo. 

The  road  was  by  no  means  lonely ;  there  were  already 
both  men  and  boys  before  them  on  the  way. 

"  We  should  hear  to-night,  as  you  ken  without  me  telling 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  167 

you,"  said  Jaacob.     "I'm  gatm  to   meet  the  coach;  you 
may  come  if  you  like— but  what  matter  is't  to  the  like  o> 


you  ?" 


"To  me!  as  much  as  to  any  man  in  Scotland,"  cried 
Cosmo,  growing  red ;  he  thought  the  dignity  of  his  years 
was  impugned. 

"  Pish !  you're  a  blackcoat,  going  to  be,"  said  Jaacob ; 
"  there's  your  friend  the  minister  there,  gaun  up  the  brae. 
I  sent  him  hame  wi'  a  flea  in  his  lug.  What  the  deevil 
business  has  the  like  of  him  to  meddle  in  our  concerns? 


you' 

a'  the  rest !  But  ye  may  just  as  weel  take  an  honest  man's 
advice,  Cosmo.  If  we  dinna  get  it  we'll  tak  it,  and  that'll 
be  seen  before  the  world  afore  mony  days  are  past." 

"  What  do  you  think  the  news  will  be  ?"  asked  Cosmo. 

"Think!  I'm  past  thinking,"  cried  Jaacob,  thrusting 
some  imaginary  person  away;  "haud  your  tongue — can  a 
man  think  when  he's  wound  up  the  length  of  taking  swurd 
in  hand,  if  need  should  be  ?  If  we  dinna  get  it,  we'll  tak 
it — do  ye  hear  ? — that's  a'  I'm  thinking  in  these  days." 

And  Jaacob  swung  along  the  road,  working  his  long 
arms  rather  more  than  he  did  his  feet,  so  that  their  action 
seemed  part  of  his  locomotive  power.  It  was  astonishing, 
too,  to  see  how  swiftly,  how  steadily,  and  with  what  a 
"  way"  upon  him,  the  little  giant  strode  onward,  swinging 
the  immense  brown  hands,  knotted  and  sinewy,  which  it 
was  hard  to  suppose  could  ever  have  been  thrust  through 
the  narrow  cuffs  of  his  coat,  like  balancing  weights  on 
either  side  of  him.  Before  them  was  the  long  line  of  dusty 
summer  road  disappearing  down  a  slope,  and  cut  off,  not  by 
the  sky,  but  by  the  Eildons,  which  began  to  blacken  in  the 
fading  light — behind  them  the  lights  of  the  village — above, 
in  a  pale,  warm  sky,  the  one  big  dilating  star  and  the 
morsel  of  moon ;  but  the  thoughts  of  Jaacob,  and  even  of 
Cosmo,  were  on  a  lesser  luminary — the  red  lantern  of  the 
coach,  which  was  not  yet  to  be  seen  by  the  keenest  eyes 
advancing  through  the  summer  dimness  from  the  south. 

"  Hang  the  lairds  and  the  ministers !"  cried  Jaacob,  after 
a  pause,  "  it's  easy  to  see  what  a  puir  grip  they  have,  and 
how  well  they  ken  it.  Free  institutions  dinna  agree  with 


168  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

the  like  of  primogeniture  and  thae  inventions  of  the  deevil. 
Let's  but  hae  a  reformed  Parliament,  and  we'll  learn  them 
better  manners.  There's  your  grand  Me'mar  setting  up 
for  a  leader  amang  the  crew,  presenting  an  address,  con 
found  his  impudence!  as  if  he  wasna  next  hand  to  a 
swindler  himself." 

"  Jacob,  do  you  know  any  thing  about  his  son  ?"  asked 
Cosmo,  eagerly. 

"He's  a  virtuoso — he's  a  dilettawnti;  I  ken  nae  ill  of 
him,"  said  Jaacob,  who  pronounced  these  titles  with  a  little 
contempt,  yet  secretly  had  a  respect  for  them  ;  "  he  hasna 
been  seen  in  this  country,  so  far  as  I've  heard  tell  of,  for 
mony  a  day.  A  lad's  no  aye  to  blame  for  his  father  and  his 
mother ;  it's  a  thing  folk  in  general  have  nae  choice  in — but 
he's  useless  to  his  ain  race,  either  as  friend  or  foe." 

"  Is  he  a  good  fellow,  then  ?  or  is  he  like  Me'mar  ?"  cried 
Cosmo. 

"  Tush !  dinna  afflict  me  about  thae  creatures  in  bad 
health,"  said  Jaacob ;  "  what's  the  use  o'  them,  lads  or 
lasses,  is  rnair  than  I  can  tell — can  they  no'  dee  and  be 
done  wi't  ?  I  tell  you,  a  docken  on  the  roadside  is  rnair 
guid  to  a  country  than  the  like  of  Me'mar's  son !" 

"  Is  he  in  bad  health  ?"  asked  the  persistent  Cosmo. 

"They're  a'  in  bad  health,"  said  Jaacob,  contemptuously, 
"as  any  auld  wife  could  tell  you;  a'  but  that  red-haired 
lassie,  that  Joan.  Speak  o'  your  changelings !  how  do  ye 
account  to  me,  you  that's  a  philosopher,  for  the  like  of  an 
honest  spirit  such  as  that,  cast  into  the  form  of  a  lassie,  and 
the  midst  of  a  hatching  o'  sparrows  like  Me'mar  ?  If  she 
had  but  been  a  lad,  she  would  have  turned  them  a'  out  like 
a  cuckoo  in  the  nest." 

"And  Oswald  Huntley  is  ill — an  invalid ?"  said  Cosmo, 
softly  returning  to  the  thread  of  his  own  thoughts. 

Jaacob  once  more  thrust  with  contempt  some  imaginary 
opponent  out  of  the  way. 

"  Get  away  with  you  down  Tyne  or  into  the  woods  wi' 
your  Oswald  Huntleys  !"  cried  Jaacob,  indignantly — "  do 
you  think  I'm  heeding  about  ane  of  the  name  ?  Whisht ! 
what's  that  ?  Did  you  hear  onything  ? — haud  your  tongue 
for  your  life !" 

Cosmo  grew  almost  as  excited  as  Jaacob — he  seized  upon 
the  lowest  bough  of  a  big  ash  tree,  and  swung  himself  up, 


THE    LAIRD     OP   NOEL  AW.  169 

with  the  facility  of  a  country  boy,  among  the  fragrant  dark 
foliage  which  rustled  about  him  as  he  stood  high  among  the 
branches  as  on  a  tower. 

"  D'ye  see  onything  ?"  cried  Jaacob,  who  could  have 
cuffed  the  boy  for  the  noise  he  made,  even  while  he  pushed 
him  up  from  beneath. 

"  Hurra !  here  she  comes — I  can  see  the  light !"  shouted 
Cosmo. 

The  lad  stood  breathless  among  the  rustling  leaves,  which 
hummed  about  him  like  a  tremulous  chorus.  Far  down 
at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  nothing  else  perceptible  to  mask  its 
progress,  came  rushing  on  the  fiery  eye  of  light,  red,  fierce, 
and  silent,  like  some  mysterious  giant  of  the  night.  It  was 
impossible  to  hear  either  hoofs  or  wheels  in  the  distance, 
still  more  to  see  the  vehicle  itself,  for  the  evening  by  this 
time  was  considerably  advanced,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
three  mystic  hills  lay  heavy  upon  the  road. 

' "  She's  late,"  said  Jaacob,  between  his  set  teeth.  The 
little  Cyclops  held  tight  by  the  great  waving  bough  of  the 
ash,  and  set  his  foot  in  a  hollow  of  its  trunk,  crushing  be 
neath  him  the  crackling  underwood.  Here  the  boy  and  he 
kept  together  breathless,  Cosmo  standing  high  above,  and 
his  companion  thrusting  his  weird,  unshaven  face  over  the 
great  branch  on  which  he  leaned.  "  She's  up  to  Plover  ha' 
— she's  at  the  toll — she's  stopped.  What's  that !  listen !" 
cried  Cosmo,  as  some  faint,  far-off  sound,  which  might  have 
been  the  cry  of  a  child,  came  on  the  soft  evening  air  towards 
them. 

Jaacob  made  an  imperative  gesture  of  silence  with  one 
hand,  and  grasped  at  the  branch  with  the  other  till  it  shook 
under  the  pressure. 

"  She's  coming  on  again — she's  up  to  the  Black  ford — 
she's  over  the  bridge — another  halt — hark  again! — that's 
not  for  passengers — they're  hurraing — hark,  Jacob !  hurra  ! 
she's  coming — they've  won  the  day !" 

Jaacob,  with  the  great  branch  swinging  under  his  hands 
like  a  willow  bough,  bade  the  boy  hold  his  peace,  with  a 
muttered  oath  through  his  set  teeth.  Now  sounds  became 
audible,  the  rattle  of  the  hoofs  upon  the  road,  the  ring  of  the 
wheels,  the  hum  of  exclamations  and  excited  voices,  under 
the  influence  of  which  the  horses  "took  the  brae"  gallantly, 
with  a  half-human  intoxication.  As  they  drew  gradually 

8 


170  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

nearer,  and  the  noise  increased,  and  the  faint  moonlight  fell 
upon  the  flags  and  ribbons  and  dusty  branches,  with  which 
the  coach  was  ornamented,  Cosmo,  unable  to  contain  him 
self,  came  rolling  down  on  his  hands  and  feet  over  the  top 
of  Jaacob,  and  descended  with  a  bold  leap  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  Jaacob,  muttering  fiercely,  stumbled  after  him, 
just  in  time  to  drag  the  excited  boy  out  of  the  way  of  the 
coach,  which  was  making  up  for  lost  time  by  furious  speed, 
and  on  which  coachman,  guard,  and  outside  passengers,  too 
much  excited  to  be  perfectly  sober,  kept  up  their  unanimous 
murmurs  of  jubilee,  with  only  a  very  secondary  regard  to 
the  road  or  any  obstructions  which  might  be  upon  it. 

"  Wha's  there  ?  get  out  o'  my  road,  every  soul  o'  ye !  I'll 
drive  the  gait  blindfold,  night  or  day,  but  I'll  no'  undertake 
the  consequence  if  ye  rin  among  my  wheels,"  cried  the 
driver. 

"  Hurra !  lads !  the  Bill's  passed — we've  won !  Hurra !". 
shouted  another  voice  from  the  roof  of  the  vehicle,  accom 
panying  the  shout  with  a  slightly  unsteady  wave  of  a  flag, 
while,  with  a  little  swell  of  sympathetic  cheers,  and  a  tri 
umphant  flourish  of  trumpet  from  the  guard,  the  jubilant 
vehicle  dashed  on,  rejoicing  as  never  mail-coach  rejoiced 
before. 

Jaacob  took  off  his  hat,  tossed  it  into  the  air,  crushed  it 
between  his  hands  as  it  came  down,  and  broke  into  an  ex 
traordinary  shout,  bellow,  or  groan,  which  it  was  impossible 
to  interpret ;  then,  turning  sharp  round,  pursued  the  coach 
with  a  fierce  speed,  like  the  run  of  a  little  tiger,  setting  all  his 
energies  to  it,  swinging  his  long  arms  on  either  side  of  him, 
and  raising  about  as  much  dust  as  the  mail  which  he  followed. 
Cosmo,  left  behind,  followed  more  gently,  laughing  in  spite 
of  himself,  and  in  spite  of  the  heroics  of  the  day,  which  in 
cluded  every  national  benefit  and  necessity  within  the  com 
pass  of  "  the  Bill,"  at  the  grotesque  little  figure  disappearing 
before  him,  twisting  its  great  feet,  and  swinging  its  arms  in 
that  extraordinary  race.  When  the  boy  reached  Kirkbride, 
the  coach  was  just  leaving  the  village  amid  a  chorus  of 
cheers  and  shouts  of  triumph.  No  one  could  think  of  any 
thing  else,  or  speak  of  any  thing  else ;  everybody  was  shak 
ing  hands  with  everybody,  and  in  the  hum  of  amateur 
speechifying,  half  a  dozen  together,  Cosmo  had  hard  work 
to  recall  even  that  sober  personage,  the  postmaster,  who  felt 


THE    LAIED     OF     NORLAW.  171 

himself  to  some  extent  a  representative  of  government  and 
natural  moderator  of  the  general  excitement,  to  some  sense  of 
his  duties.  Cosmo's  exertions,  however,  were  rewarded  by 
the  sight  of  three  letters,  with  which  he  hastened  home. 


CHAPTER    XXXY. 

• 

"THE  Reform  Bill's  passed,  mother !  we've  won  the  day !" 
cried  Cosmo,  rushing  into  the  Norlaw  dining-parlor  with  an 
additional  hurra !  of  exultation.  After  all  the  din  and  ex 
citement  out  of  doors,  the  summer  twilight  of  the  room, 
with  one  candle  lighted  and  one  unlit  upon  the  table,  and 
the  widow  seated  by  herself  at  work,  the  only  one  living 
object  in  the  apartment,  looked  somewhat  dreary — but  she 
looked  up  with  a  brightening  face,  and  lighted  the  second 
candle  immediately  on  her  son's  return. 

uEh,  laddie,  that's  news!"  cried  the  Mistress;  uare  you 
sure  it's  true  ?  I  didna  think,  for  my  part,  the  Lords  had  as 
much  sense.  Passed  !  come  to  be  law ! — eh,  my  Huntley ! 
to  think  he's  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  and  canna  hear." 

"  He'll  hear  in  time,"  said  Cosmo,  with  a  little  agitation, 
producing  his  budget  of  letters.  "  Mother,  I've  more  news 
than  about  the  Bill;  I've  a  letter  here." 

His  mother  rose  and  advanced  upon  him  with  characteris 
tic  vehemence : — 

"  Do  you  dare  to  play  with  your  mother,  you  silly  bairn  ? 
Give  it  to  me,"  said  the  Mistress,  whom  Cosmo's  hurried, 
breathless,  joyful  face  had  already  enlightened;  "do  you 
think  I  canna  bear  gladness,  me  that  never  fainted  with  sor 
row  ?  Eh  Huntley,  my  bairn !" 

And  in  spite  of  her  indignation,  Huntley's  mother  sank 
into  the  nearest  chair,  and  let  her  tears  fall  on  his  letter  as 
she  opened  it.  It  did  not,  however,  prove  to  be  the  intima 
tion  of  his  arrival,  which  they  hoped  for.  It  was  written  at 
sea,  three  months  after  his  departure,  when  he  was  still  not 
above  half  way  on  his  journey ;  for  it  was  a  more  ^serious 
business  getting  to  Australia  in  those  days  than  it  is  now. 
Huntley  wrote  out  of  his  little  berth  in  the  middle  of  the 


172  THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW. 

big  ocean,  with  all  the  strange  creaks  of  the  ship  and  voices 
of  his  fellow-passengers  to  bear  him  company,  with  a  heart 
which  was  still  at  Norlavv.  The  Mistress  tried  very  hard 
to  read  his  letter  aloud ;  she  drew  first  one  and  then  the 
other  candle  close  to  her,  exclaiming  against  the  dimness  of 
the  light ;  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  with 
something  very  like  a  sob,  to  bid  Cosmo  sharply  be  quiet 
and  no'  interrupt  her,  like  a  restless  bairn,  while  she  read 
his  brother's  letter ;  but  at  last  the  Mistress  broke  down 
and  tried  no  further.  It  was  about  ten  months  since  she 
bade  him  farewell,  and  this  was  the  first  token  of  Huntley's 
real  person  and  existence  which  for  all  that  lingering  and 
weary  time  had  come  to  his  mother,  who  had  never  missed 
him  out  of  her  sight  for  a  week  at  a  time,  all  his  life  before. 

'There  was  not  a  very  great  deal  in  it  even  now,  for  let 
ter-writing  had  been  a  science  little  practiced  at  Norlaw, 
and  Huntley  had  still  nothing  to  tell  but  the  spare  details 
of  a  long  sea  voyage  ;  there  was,  however,  in  it,  what  there 
is  not  in  all  letters,  nor  in  many — even  much  more  affection 
ate  and  effusive  epistles  than  this — Huntley  himself.  When 
the.  Mistress  had  come  to  the  end,  which  was  but  slowly,  in 
consideration  of  the  dimness  of  the  candles  or  her  eyes,  she 
gave  it  to  Cosmo,  and  waited  rather  impatiently  for  his 
perusal  of  the  precious  letter.  Then  she  went  over  it  again, 
making  hasty  excuse,  as  she  did  so,  for  "  one  part  I  didna 
make  out,"  and  finally,  unable  to  refrain,  got  up  and  went 
to  the  kitchen,  where  Marget  was  still  busy,  to  communi 
cate  the  good  news. 

The  kitchen  door  was  open  ;  there  was  neither  blind  nor 
shutter  upon  the  kitchen-window,  and  the  soft  summer  stars, 
now  peeping  out  in  half  visible  hosts  like  cherubs,  might  look 
in  upon  Marget,  passing  back  and  forward  through  the  fire 
light,  as  much  and  as  often  as  they  pleased.  From  the  open 
door  a  soft  evening  breath  of  wind,  with  the  fragrance  of  new 
growth  and  vegetation  upon  it,  which  is  almost  as  sweet  as 
positive  odors,  came  pleasantly  into  the  ruddy  apartment, 
where  the  light  found  a  hundred  bright  points  to  sparkle  in, 
from  the  "  brass  pan"  and  copper  kettle  on  the  shelf  to  the 
thick  yolks  of  glass  in  one  or  two  of  the  window-panes.  It 
was  not  quite  easy  to  tell  what  Marget  was  doing ;  she 
was  generally  busy,  moving  about  with  a  little  hum  of 
song,  setting  every  thing  in  order  for  the  night. 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NORLAW.  173 

"Marget,  my  woman,  you'll  be  pleased  to  hear — I've 
heard  from  my  son,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  unusual  gracious- 
ness.  She  came  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire,  waiting  to 
be  questioned^and  the  fire  light  still  shone  with  a  very  pris 
matic  radiance  through  the  Mistress's  eyelashes,  careful 
though  she  had  been,  before  she  entered,  to  remove  the 
dew  from  her  eyes. 

"  You're  no'  meaning  Mr.  Huntley  ?  Eh  !  bless  him  !  has 
he  won  there  ?"  cried  Marget,  letting  down  her  kilted  gown, 
and  hastening  forward. 

And  then  the  Mistress  was  tempted  to  draw  forth  her 
letter,  and  read  "  a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there,"  which  the 
faithful  servant  received  with  sobs  and  exclamations. 

"  Bless  the  laddie,  he  minds  every  single  thing  at  N~or- 
law — even  the  like  of  me  !"  cried  Marget ;  upon  which  the 
Mistress  rose  again  from  the  seat  she  had  taken,  with  a  little 
start  of  impatience  : — 

"  Wherefore  should  he  no'  mind  you  ? — you've  been 
about  the  house  a'  his  life  ;  and  I  hope  I'll  never  live  to  see 
the  day  when  a  bairn  of  mine  forgets  his  hame  and  auld 
friends !  It's  time  to  bar  the  door,  and  put  up  the  shutter. 
You  should  have  had  a'  done,  and  your  fire  gathered  by 
this  time;  but  it's  a  bonnie  night !" 

"  'Deed,  ay  !"  said  Marget  to  herself,  when  Huntley's 
mother  had  once  more  joined  Cosmo  in  the  dining-room ; 
"  the  bonniest  night  that's  been  to  her  this  mony  a  month, 
though  she'll  no'  let  on — as  if  I  didna  ken  how  her  heart 
yearns  to  that  laddie  on  the  sea,  blessings  on  him  !  Eh,  sirs ! 
to  think  o'  thae  very  stars  shining  on  the  auld  castle  and 
the  young  laird,  though  the  world  itsel's  between  the  twa 
— and  the  guid  hand  of  Providence  ower  a' — God  be 
thanked ! — to  bring  the  bairn  hame  !" 

When  the  Mistress  returned  to  the  dining-parlor,  she 
found  Cosmo  quite  absorbed  with  another  letter.  The  lad's 
face  was  flushed  with  half-abashed  pleasure,  and  a  smile, 
shy,  but  triumphant,  was  on  his  lip.  It  was  not  Patie's 
periodical  letter,  which  still  lay  unopened  before  her  own 
chair,  where  it  had  been  left  in  the  overpowering  interest  of 
Huntley's.  The  Mistress  was  not  perfectly  pleased.  To 
care  for  what  anybody  else  might  write — u  one  of  his  stu 
dent  lads,  nae  doubt,  or  some  other  fremd  person,"  in  pres- 


174  THE    LAIKD    OF    NORLAW. 

ence  of  the  first  letter  from  Huntley,  was  almost  a  slight 
to  her  first-born. 

"  You're  strange  creatures,  you  laddies,"  said  the  Mis 
tress.  "  I  dinna  understand  you,  for  my  part.  There  are 
you,  Cosmo  Livingstone,  as  pleased  about  your  nonsense 
letter,  whatever  it  may  be,  as  if  there  was  no  such  person 
as  my  Huntley  in  the  world — him  that  aye  made  such  a 
wark  about  you !" 

"  This  is  not  a  nonsense  letter — will  you  read  it,  mother  ?" 
said  Cosmo. 

"  Me ! — I  havena  lookit  at  Patie's  letter  yet !"  cried  the 
Mistress,  indignantly.  "  Do  you  think  I'm  a  person  to  be 
diverted  with  what  one  callant  writes  to  another  ?  Hold 
your  peace,  bairn,  and  let  me  see  what  my  son  says." 

The  Mistress  accordingly  betook  herself  to  Patrick's  let 
ter  with  great  seriousness  and  diligence,  keeping  her  eyes 
steadily  upon  it,  and  away  from  Cosmo,  whom,  neverthe 
less,  she  could  still  perceive  holding  his  letter,  his  own  es 
pecial  correspondence,  with  the  same  look  of  shy  pleasure, 
in  his  hand.  Patie's  epistle  had  nothing  of  remarkable  in 
terest  in  it,  as  it  happened,  and  the  Mistress  could  not  quite 
resist  a  momentary  and  troubled  speculation,  Who  was 
Cosmo's  correspondent,  who  pleased  him  so  much,  yet 
made  him  blush  ?  Could  it  be  a  woman  ?  The  idea  made 
her  quite  angry  in  spite  of  herself — at  his  age ! 

"  Now,  mother,  read  this,"  said  Cosmo,  with  the  same 
smile. 

"  If  it's  any  kind  of  bairn's  nonsense,  dinna  offer  it  to 
me,"  said  the  Mistress,  impatiently.  "Am  I  prying  into 
wha  writes  you  letters  ?  I  tell  you  I've  had  letters  enough 
for  ae  night.  Peter  Todhunter ! — wha  in  the  world  is 
he  ?" 

"  Read  it,  mother,"  repeated  Cosmo. 

The  Mistress  read  in  much  amazement ;  and  the  epistle 
was  as  follows : 

"NORTH  BRITISH  COURANT  OFFICE, 

"  EDINBURGH. 
"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  Hearing  that  you  are  the  C.  L.  N".  who  have  favored  the 
North  British  Courant  from  time  to  time  with  poetical 
eifusions  which  seem  to  show  a  good  deal  of  talent,  I  write 
to  ask  whether  you  have  ever  done  any  thing  in  the  way  of 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  175 

prose  romance,  or  essays  of  a  humorous  character  in  the 
style  of  Sterne,  or  narrative  poetry.  I  am  just  about  to 
start  (with  a  good  staif  of  well-known  contributors)  a  new 
monthly,  to  be  called  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine,  a  miscel 
lany  of  general  literature ;  and  should  be  glad  to  receive 
and  give  my  best  consideration  to  any  articles  from  your 
pen.  The  rates  of  remuneration  I  can  scarcely  speak  deci 
sively  about  until  the  success  of  this  new  undertaking  is  in 
some  degree  established  ;  but  this  I  may  say — that  they 
shall  be  liberal  and  satisfactory,  and  I  trust  may  be  the 
means  of  inaugurating  a  new  and  better  system  of  mutual 
support  between  publishers  and  authors — the  accomplish 
ment  of  which  has  long  been  a  great  object  of  my  life. 
"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  PETER  TODHUNTEB." 

"The  North  British  C our  ant !  poetry!  writing  for  a 
magazine ! — what  does  it  a'  mean  ?"  cried  the  Mistress. 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you're  an  author,  Cosmo  Living 
stone  ? — and  me  never  kent — a  bairn  like  you  !" 

"  Nothing  but  some — verses,  mother,"  said  the  boy,  with 
a  blush  and  a  laugh,  though  he  was  not  insensible  to  the 
importance  of  Mr.  Todhiinter's  communication.  Cosmo's 
vanity  was  not  sufficiently  rampant  to  say  poems.  "  I  did 
not  send  them  with  my  name.  I  wanted  to  do  something 
better  before  I  showed  them  to  you." 

"  And  here  they're  wanting  the  callant  for  a  magazine  !" 
cried  the  Mistress.  "  Naething  but  a  bairn — the  youngest ! 
a  laddie  that  was  never  out  of  Norlaw  till  within  six  months 
time  !  And  I  warrant  they  ken  what's  for  their  ain  profit, 
and  what  kind  of  a  lad  they're  seeking  after— and  me  this 
very  night  thinking  him  nae  better  than  a  bairn!" 

And  the  Mistress  laughed  in  the  mood  of  exquisite  pride 
at  its  highest  point  of  gratification,  and  followed  up  her 
laugh  by  tears  of  the  same.  The  boy  was  pleased,  but  his 
mother  was  intoxicated.  The  North  British  Gourant  and 
the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine  were  glorious  in  her  eyes  as  ce 
lestial  messengers  of  fame,  and  she  could  not  but  follow  the 
movements  of  her  boy  with  the  amazed  observation  of  a 
sudden  discovery.  He  who  was  "  naething  but  a  bairn"  had 
already  proved  himself  a  genius,  and  Literature  urgent  called 
him  to  her  aid.  He  might  be  a  Scott— he  might  turn  out  a 


176  THE     LAIED    OF    NORLAW. 

Shakespeare.  The  Mistress  looked  at  him  with  no  limit  to 
her  wonder,  and  for  the  moment  none  in  her  faith. 

"And  just  as  good  a  laddie  as  he  aye  was,"  she  murmured 
to  herself,  stroking  his  hair  fondly — "  though  mony  a  ane's 
head  would  have  been  clean  turned  to  see  themsels  in  a 
printed  paper — no'  to  say  in  a  book.  Eh,  bairn !  and  to 
think  how  little  I  kent,  that  am  your  mother,  what  God  had 
put  among  my  very  bairns  !" 

"  Mother,  it  may  turn  out  poor  enough,  after  all,"  cried 
Cosmo,  half  ashamed — "  I  don't  know  yet  myself  what  I 
can  do." 

"  I  daresay  no',"  said  the  Mistress,  proudly,  "  but  you 
may  take  my  word  this  decent  man  does,  Cosmo,  seeing  his 
ain  interest  is  concerned.  N"a,  laddie,  I  ken,  if  you  dinna, 
the  ways  of  this  world,  and  I  wouldna  say  but  they  think 
they've  got  just  a  prize  in  my  bairn.  Eh  !  if  the  laddies 
were  but  here  and  kent ! — and  oh,  Cosmo  !  what  he  would 
have  thought  of  it  that's  gone  !" 

When  the  Mistress  had  dried  her  eyes,  she  managed  to 
draw  from  the  boy  a  gradual  confession  that  the  North 
British  Courant)  sundry  numbers  of  it,  were  snugly  hid  in 
his  own  trunk  up  stairs,  from  which  concealment  they  were 
brought  forth  with  much  shamefacedness  by  Cosmo,  and 
read  with  the  greatest  triumph  by  his  mother.  The  Mistress 
had  no  mind  to  go  to  rest  that  night — she  staid  up  looking 
at  him — wondering  over  him  ;  and  Cosmo  confessed  to  some 
of  his  hitherto  secret  fancies — how  he  would  like  to  go 
abroad  to  see  new  countries,  and  to  hear  strange  tongues, 
and  how  he  had  longed  to  labor  for  himself. 

"  Whisht !  laddie — I  would  have  been  angry  but  for  this," 
said  the  Mistress.  "  The  like  of  you  has  nae  call  to  work ; 
but  I  canna  say  onything  mair,  Cosmo,  now  that  Providence 
has  taken  it  out  of  my  hand.  And  I  dinna  wonder  you 
would  like  to  travel — the  like  of  you  canna  be  fed  on  com 
mon  bread  like  common  folk — and  you'll  hae  to  see  every 
thing  if  you're  to  be  an  author.  N"a,  laddie,  no'  for  the 
comfort  of  seeing  you  and  hearing  you  would  I  put  bars  on 
your  road.  I  aye  thought  I  would  live  to  be  proud  of  my 
sons,  but  I  didna  ken  I  was  to  be  overwhelmed  in  a  moment, 
and  you  uaething  but  a  bairn !" 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOEL  AW.  177 


CHAPTEE    XXXVI. 

THE  result  of  this  conversation  was  that  Cosmo  made  a 
little  private  visit  to  Edinburgh  to  determine  his  own  en 
trance  into  the  republic  of  letters,  and  to  see  the  enterpris 
ing  projector  of  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine  through  whom 
this  was  to  take  place.  The  boy  went  modestly,  half  abashed 
by  his  good  fortune  and  dawning  dream  of  fame,  yet  full  of 
a  flush  of  youthful  hope,  sadly  out  of  proportion  to  any 
possible  pretensions  of  the  new  periodical.  He  saw  it  ad 
vertised  in  the  newspaper  which  one  of  his  fellow-passengers 
on  the  coach  read  on  the  way.  He  saw  a  little  printed  hand 
bill  with  its  illustrious  name  in  the  window  of  the  first  book 
seller's  shop  he  looked  into  on  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  and 
Cosmo  marched  over  the  North  Bridge  with  his  carpet-bag 
in  his  hand,  with  a  swell  of  visionary  glory.  He  could  not 
help  half  wondering  what  the  indifferent  people  round  him 
would  think,  if  they  knew — and  then  could  not  but  blush  at 
himself  for  the  fancy.  Altogether  the  lad  was  in  a  tumult 
of  delightful  excitement,  hope,  and  pleasure,  such  as  per 
haps  only  falls  to  the  lot  of  boys  who  hope  themselves  poets, 
and  think  at  eighteen  that  they  are  already  appreciated  and 
on  the  highway  to  fame. 

As  he  ascended  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Purdie's,  he  met  Cam 
eron  coming  down.  There  was  a  very  warm  greeting  be 
tween  them — a  greeting  which  surprise  startled  into  unusual 
affectionateness  on  the  part  of  the  Highlander.  Cameron 
forgot  his  own  business  altogether  to  return  with  Cosmo, 
and  needed  very  little  persuasion  to  enter  the  little  parlor, 
which  no  other  lodger  had  turned  up  to  occupy,  and  share 
the  refreshment  which  the  overjoyed  landlady  made  haste 
to  prepare  for  her  young  guest.  This  was  so  very  unusual 
a  yielding  on  Cameron's  part,  that  Cosmo  almost  forgot 
his  own  preoccupation  in  observing  his  friend,  who  alto 
gether  looked  brightened  and  smoothed  out,  and  younger 
than  when  they  parted.  The  elder  and  soberer  man,  who 
knew  a  little  more  of  life  and  the  world  than  Cosmo,  though 
very  little  more  of  literature,  could  not  help  a  haltlpercep- 
tible  smile  at  the  exuberance  of  Cosmo's  hopes.  Not  that 
Cameron  despised  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine  ;  far  from 

8* 


178  THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW. 

that,  the  Divinity  student  had  all  the  reverence  for  literature 
common  to  those  who  know  little  about  it,  which  reverence, 
alas !  grows  smaller  and  smaller  in  this  too-knowing  age. 
But  at  thirty  years  old  people  know  better  than  at  eighteen 
how  the  sublimest  undertakings  break  down,  and  how  some 
times  even  "  the  highest  talent"  can  not  float  its  venture. 
So  the  man  found  it  hard  not  to  smile  at  the  boy's  shy  tri 
umph  and  undoubting  hope,  yet  could  not  help  but  be  proud, 
notwithstanding,  with  a  tenderness  almost  feminine,  of  the 
unknown  gifts  of  the  lad,  whose  youth,  he  could  not  quite 
tell  how,  had  found  out  the  womanish  corner  of  his  own 
reserved  heart,  in  which,  as  he  said  himself,  only  two  or 
three  could  find  room  at  any  time. 

"  But  you  never  told  me  of  these  poetical  effusions, 
Cosmo,"  said  his  friend,  as  he  put  up  the  bookseller's 
note. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  Mr.  Todhunter.  JTonly  call  them  verses," 
said  Cosmo,  with  that  indescribable  blending  of  vanity  and 
humility  which  belongs  to  his  age;  "and  I  knew  you  would 
not  care  for  them  ;  they  were  not  worth  showing  to  you." 

"  I'm  not  a  poetical  man,"  said  Cameron,  "  but  I  might 
care  for  your  verses  in  spite  of  that ;  and  now  Cosmo,  lad 
die,  while  you  have  been  thinking  of  fame,  what  novel  visitor 
should  you  suppose  had  come  to  me  ?" 

"  Who  ? — what  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  with  eager  interest. 

"  What  ?"  echoed  Cameron,  "  either  temptation  or  good 
fortune — it's  hard  to  say  which — only  I  incline  to  the  tirst. 
Satan's  an  active  chield,  and  thinks  little  of  trouble ;  but  I 
doubt  if  the  other  one  would  have  taken  the  pains  to  climb 
my  stair.  I've  had  an  offer  of  a  tutorship,  Cosmo — to  go 
abroad  for  six  months  or  so  with  a  callant  like  yourself." 

"  To  go  abroad  !"  Cosmo's  eyes  lighted  up  with  instant 
excitement,  and  he  stretched  his  hand  across  the  table  to 
his  friend,  with  a  vehemence  which  Cameron  did  not  under 
stand,  though  he  returned  the  grasp. 

uAn  odd  enough  thing  for  me,"  said  the  Highland  man, 
"but  the  man's  an  eccentric  man,  and  something  has  pos 
sessed  him  that  his  son  would  be  in  safe  hands ;  as  in  safe 
hands  he  might  be,"  added  the  student  in  an  undertone, 
"  seeing  I  would  be  sorry  to  lead  any  lad  into  evil — but  as 
for  Jit  hands,  that's  to  be  seen,  and  I'm  far  from  confident  it 
would  be  right  for  me." 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOBLAW.  179 

"  Go,  and  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Cosmo,  eagerly.  "  I've 
set  my  heart  upon  it  for  years." 

"  More  temptation  !"  said  the  Highlandman.  "  Carnal 
inclinations  and  pleasures  of  this  world — and  I've  little  time 
to  lose.  I  can  not  afford  a  session — whisht !  Comfort  and 
ease  to  the  flesh,  and  pleasure  to  the  mind,  are  hard  enough 
to  fight  with  by  themselves  without  help  from  you." 

It  was  almost  the  first  time  he  had  made  the  slightest  allu 
sion  to  his  own  hard  life  and  prolonged  struggle,  and  Cosmo 
was  silent  out  of  respect  and  partially  in  the  belief  that  if 
Cameron's  mind  had  not  been  very  near  made  up  in  favor  of 
this  new  proposal,  he  would  not  have  suffered  himself  to  refer 
to  it.  The  two  friends  sat  up  late  together  that  night.  Cos 
mo  pouring  out  all  his  maze  of  half-formed  plans  and  indis 
tinct  intentions  into  Cameron's  ears — his  projects  of  author 
ship,  his  plan  for  a  tragedy  of  which  Wallace  wight  should 
be  the  hero ;  of  a  pastoral  poem  and  narrative,  something- 
bet  ween  Colin  Clout  and  the  Gentle  Shepherd — and  of 
essays  and  philosophies  without  end  ;  while  Cameron  on  his 
part  smiled,  as  he  could  not  but  smile  by  right  of  his  thirty 
years,  yet  somehow  began  to  believe,  like  the  Mistress,  in 
the  enthusiastic  boy,  with  all  that  youthful  flush  and  fervor 
in  the  face  which  his  triumph  and  inspiration  of  hope  made 
beautiful.  The  elder  man  could  not  give  his  own  confidence 
so  freely  as  Cosmo  did,  but  he  opened  himself  as  far  as  it 
was  his  nature  to  do,  in  droppings  of  shy  frankness — a  little 
now  and  a  little  then — which  were  in  reality  the  very  highest 
compliment  which  such  a  man  could  pay  to  his  companion. 
When  they  separated,  Cameron,  it  is  true,  knew  all  about 
Cosmo,  while  Cosmo  did  not  know  all  about  Cameron  ;  but 
the  difference  was  not  even  so  much  a  matter  of  temper 
ament  as  of  years,  and  the  lad,  without  hearing  many  par 
ticulars,  or  having  a  great  deal  of  actual  confidence  given 
to  him,  knew  the  man  better  at  the  end  of  this  long  even 
ing  than  ever  he  had  done  before. 

In  the  morning  Cosmo  got  up  full  of  pleasurable  excite 
ment,  and  set  out  early  to  call  on  Mr.  Todhunter.  The 
North  British  Courant  office  was  in  one  of  the  short  streets 
which  run  between  Princes  Street  and  George  Street,  and 
in  the  back  premises,  a  long  way  back,  through  a  succession 
of  rooms,  Cosmo  was  ushered  into  the  especial  little  den  of 
the  publisher.  Mr.  Todhunter  was  of  a  yellow  complex- 


180  THE    LAIBD     OF     NORLAW. 

ion,  with  loose,  thick  lips,  and  wiry  black  hair.  The  lips 
were  the  most  noticeable  feature  in  his  face,  from  the  cir 
cumstance  that  when  he  spoke  his  mouth  seemed  uncom 
fortably  full  of  moisture,  which  gave  also  a  peculiar  charac 
ter  to  his  voice.  He  was  surrounded  by  a  mass  of  papers, 
and  had  paste  and  scissors — those  palladiums  of  the  weekly 
press — by  his  side.  If  there  was  one  thing  more  than  an 
other  on  which  the  North  British  Courant  prided  itself,  it 
was  on  the  admirable  collection  of  other  people's  opinions 
which  everybody  might  find  in  its  columns.  Mr.  Todhunter 
made  no  very  great  stand  upon  politics.  What  he  prized  was 
a  reputation  which  he  thought  "  literary,"  and  a  skill  almost 
amounting  to  genius  for  making  what  he  called  "  excerpts." 

"  Very  glad  to  make  your  personal  acquaintance,  Mr.  Liv 
ingstone,"  said  the  projector  of  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine, 
"  and  still  more  to  receive  your  assurances  of  support.  I've  set 
my  heart  on  making  this  a  real,  impartial,  literary  enterprise, 
sir — no'  one  of  your  close  boroughs,  as  they  say  now-a-days, 
for  a  dozen  or  a  score  of  favored  contributors,  but  open  to 
genius,  sir — genius  wherever  it  may  be — rich  or  poor." 

Cosmo  did  not  know  precisely  what  to  answer,  so  he 
filled  in  the  pause  with  a  little  murmur  of  assent. 

"  Ye  see  the  relations  of  every  thing's  changing,"  said 
Mr.  Todhunter  ;  "  old  arrangements  will  not  do — wull  not 
answer,  sir,  in  an  advancing  age.  I  have  always  held  high 
opinions  as  to  the  claims  of  literary  men,  myself — it's  against 
my  nature  to  treat  a  man  of  genius  like  a  shopkeeper ;  and 
my  principle,  in  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine,  is  just  this — 
first-rate  talent  to  make  the  thing  pay,  and  first-rate  pay  to 
secure  the  talent.  That's  my  rule,  and  I  think  it's  a  very 
safe  guide  for  a  plain  man  like  me." 

"And  it's  sure  to  succeed,"  said  Cosmo,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  I  think  it  wull,  sir — upon  my  conscience,  if  you  ask  me, 
I  think  it  wull,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter ;  "  and  I  have  little 
doubt  young  talent  will  rally  round  the  Auld  Reekie  Maga 
zine.  I'm  aware  it's  an  experiment,  but  nothing  shall  ever 
make  me  give  in  to  an  ungenerous  principle.  Men  of 
genius  must  be  protected,  sir  ;  and  how  are  they  protected 
in  your  old-established  periodicals  ?  There's  one  old  fogy 
for  this  department,  and  another  old  fogy  for  that  depart 
ment  ;  and  as  for  a  genial  recognition  of  young  talent,  take 
my  word  for't,  there's  no  such  thing." 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  181 

"  I  know,"  said  Cosmo,  "  it  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  in.  Poor  Chatterton,  and  Keats,  and—" 

"  Just  that,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter.  "  It's  for  the  Keatses 
and  the  Chattertons  of  this  day,  sir,  that  I  mean  to  inter 
pose  ;  and  no  lad  of  genius  shall  go  to  the  grave  with  a  pis 
tol  in  his  hand  henceforward  if  I  can  help  it.  I  admire  youi 
effusions  very  much,  Mr.  Livingstone — there's  real  heart  and 
talent  in  them,  sir — in  especial  the  one  to  Mary,  which,  I 
must  say,  gave  me  the  impression  of  an  older  man." 

"  I  am  pretty  old  in  practice — I  have  been  writing  a  great 
many  years,"  said  Cosmo,  with  that  delightful,  ingenuous, 
single-minded,  youthful  vanity,  which  it  did  one's  heart  good 
to  see.  Even  Mr.  Todhunter,  over  his  paste  and  scissors, 
was  somehow  illumined  by  it,  and  looked  up  at  the  lad  with 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  upon  his  watery  lips. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  provide  us  for  the  opening  of 
the  feast  ?"  said  the  bookseller,  "  which  must  be  ready  by 
the  15th,  at  the  very  latest,  and  be  the  very  cream  of  your 
inspiration.  It's  no  small  occasion,  sir.  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind  what  is  to  be  your  deboo  ?" 

"  It  depends  greatly  upon  what  you  think  best,"  said  Cos 
mo,  candid  and  impartial ;  "  and  as  you  know  what  articles 
you  have  secured  already,  I  should  be  very  glad  of  any  hint 
from  you." 

"  A  very  sensible  remark,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter.  "  Well, 
I  would  say,  a  good  narrative  now,  in  fine,  stirring,  ballad 
verse — a  narrative  always  pleases  the  public  fancy — or  a 
spirited  dramatic  sketch,  or  a  historical  tale,  to  be  completed, 
say,  in  the  next  number.  I  should  say,  sir,  any  one  of 
these  would  answer  the  Auld  Reekie  / — only  be  on  your 
mettle.  I  consider  there's  good  stuff  in  you — real  good  stuff 
— but,  at  the  same  time,  many  prudent  persons  would  tell 
nie  I  was  putting  too  much  reliance  on  so  young  a  man." 

"  I  will  not  disappoint  you,"  said  Cosmo,  with  a  little 
pride  ;  "  but,  supposing  this  first  beginning  over,  could  it  do 
any  good  to  the  magazine,  do  you  think,  to  have  a  contrib 
utor — letters  from  abroad  —  I  had  some  thoughts — I — I 
wished  very  much  to  know — " 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  going  abroad  ?"  said  the  book 
seller,  benignantly. 

"  I  can  scarcely  say  think — but,  there  was  an  opportunity," 


182  THE    LAIRD     OP    NORLAW. 

said  Cosmo,  with  a  blush  ;  "  that  is,  if  it  did  not  stand  in  the 
way  of — " 

"  Auld  Reekie  f  Certainly  not — on  the  contrary,  I  know 
nothing  I  would  like  better,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter.  "  Some 
fine  Italian  legends,  now,  or  a  few  stories  from  the  Rhine, 
with  a  pleasant  introduction,  and  a  little  romantic  incident, 
to  show  how  you  heard  them — capital !  but  I  must  see  you 
at  my  house  before  you  go.  And  as  for  the  remuneration, 
we  can  scarcely  fix  on  that,  perhaps,  till  the  periodical's 
launched — but  ye  know  my  principle,  and  I  may  say,  sir, 
with  confidence,  no  man  was  left  in  the  lurch  that  put  reli 
ance  upon  me.  I'm  a  plain  man,  as  you  see  me,  but  I  appre 
ciate  the  claims  of  genius,  and  young  talent  shall  not  want 
its  platform  in  this  city  of  Edinburgh;  or,  if  it  does,  it  shall 
be  no  fault  of  mine." 

With  a  murmured  applause  of  this  sentiment,  and  in  a  re 
newed  tumult  of  pleasure,  Cosmo  left  his  new  friend,  and 
went  home  lingering  over  the  delightful  thought  of  Italian 
legends  and  stories  of  the  Rhine,  told  in  the  very  scenes  of 
the  same.  The  idea  intoxicated  him  almost  out  of  remem 
brance  of  Mary  of  Melrnar,  and  if  the  boy's  head  was  not 
turned,  it  seemed  in  a  very  fair  way  of  being  so,  for  the  sen 
timents  of  Mr.  Todhunter — a  publisher ! — a  practical  man  ! 
— one  who  knew  the  real  value  of  authorship  !  filled  the  lad 
with  a  vague  glory  in  his  new  craft.  A  London  newspaper 
proprietor,  who  spoke  like  the  possessor  of  the  North  British 
Courant,  would  have  been,  the  chances  are,  a  conscious 
humbug,  and  perhaps  so  might  an  Edinburgh  bookseller  of 
the  present  time,  who  expressed  the  same  sentiments.  Mr. 
Todhunter,  however,  was  not  a  humbug.  He  was  like  one 
of  those  dabblers  in  science  who  come  at  some  simple  me 
chanical  principle  by  chance,  and  in  all  the  flush  of  their  dis 
covery,  claim  as  original  and  their  own  what  was  well  known 
a  hundred  years  since.  He  was  perfectly  honest  in  the  rude 
yet  simple  vanity  with  which  he  patronized  "  young  talent," 
and  in  his  vulgar,  homely  fashion,  felt  that  he  had  quite 
seized  upon  a  new  idea  in  his  Auld  Reekie  Magazine — an 
idea  too  original  and  notable  to  yield  precedence  even  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review. 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  183 


CHAPTEE    XXXVII. 

THE  pace  of  events  began  to  quicken  with  Cosmo.  When 
he  encountered  his  fellow-lodger  in  the  evening,  he  found 
that  Cameron  had  been  permitting  his  temptation  to  gain 
more  and  more  ground  upon  him.  The  Highlander,  humbly 
born  and  cottage  bred  as  he  was,  and  till  very  recently 
bounded  by  the  straitest  prospects  as  to  the  future,  had 
still  a  deep  reserve  of  imaginative  feeling,  far  away  down 
where  no  one  could  get  at  it — under  the  deposit  left  by  the 
slow  toil  and  vulgar  privations  of  many  years.  Unconsciously 
to  himself,  the  presence  and  society  of  Cosmo  Livingstone 
had  recalled  his  own  boyhood  to  the  laboring  man,  in  the 
midst  of  that  sweat  of  his  brow  in  which  he  ate  his  scanty 
bread  in  the  Edinburgh  garret.  Where  was  there  ever 
boyhood  which  had  not  visions  of  adventure  and  dreams  of 
strange  countries  ?  All  that  last  winter,  through  which  his 
boy  companion  stole  into  his  heart,  recollections  used  to 
come  suddenly  upon  the  uncommunicating  Highlander  of 
hours  and  fancies  in  his  own  life,  which  he  supposed  he  had 
long  ago  forgotten — hours  among  his  own  hills,  herding 
sheep,  when  he  lay  looking  up  at  the  skies,  and  entranced 
by  the  heroic  lore  with  which  he  was  most  familiar,  thinking 
of  David's  well  at  Bethlehem,  and  the  wine-press  where 
Gideon  thrashed  his  wheat,  and  the  desert  waters  where 
Moses  led  his  people,  and  of  all  the  glorious  unknown  world 
beside,  through  which  his  path  must  lie  to  the  Holy  Land. 
Want,  and  labor,  and  the  steady,  desperate  aim,  with  which 
he  pushed  through  every  obstacle  towards  the  one  goal  of 
his  ambition,  had  obscured  these  visions  in  his  mind,  but 
Cosmo's  fresh  boyhood  woke  them  by  degrees,  and  the  un 
usual  and  unexpected  proposal  lately  made  to  him,  had 
thrilled  the  cooled  blood  in  Cameron's  veins  as  he  did  not 
suppose  it  could  be  thrilled.  Ease,  luxury  (to  him),  and 
gratifitation  in  the  meantime,  with  a  reserve  fund  great 
enough  to  carry  him  through  a  session  without  any  extra 
labor.  Why  did  he  hesitate"?  He  hesitated  simply  because 
it  might  put  off  for  six  months — possibly  for  a  year — the  ac 
complishment  of  his  own  studies  and  the  gaining  of  that 
end,  which  was  not  a  certain  living,  however  humble,  but 


184  THE    LAJRD     OF    NORLAW. 

merely  a  license  to  preach,  and  his  chance  with  a  hundred 
others  of  a  presentation  to  some  poor  rural  parish,  or  a  call 
from  some  chapel  of  ease.  But  he  did  hesitate  long  and 
painfully.  He  feared,  in  his  austere  self-judgment,  to  prefer 
his  own  pleasure  to  the  work  of  God,  and  it  was  only  when 
his  boy-favorite  came  back  again  and  threw  all  his  fervid 
youthful  influence  into  the  scale,  that  Nature  triumphed 
with  Cameron,  and  that  he  began  to  permit  himself  to  re 
member  that,  toilworn  as  he  was,  he  was  still  young,  and 
that  the  six  months'  holiday  might,  after  all,  be  well  ex 
pended.  The  very  morning  after  Cosmo's  arrival,  after  lying 
awake  thinking  of  it  half  the  night,  he  had  gone  to  the  father 
of  his  would-be-pupil  to  explain  the  condition  on  which  he 
would  accept  the  charge,  which  was,  that  Cosmo  might  be 
permitted  to  join  the  little  party.  Cameron's  patron  was  a 
Highlander,  like  himself — obstinate,  one-sided,  and  imperi 
ous.  He  did  not  refuse  the  application.  He  only  issued 
instant  orders  that  Cosmo  should  be  presented  to  him  with 
out  delay,  that  he  might  judge  of  his  fitness  as  a  traveling 
companion — and  Cameron  left  him,  pledged,  if  his  decision 
should  be  favorable,  to  accept  the  office. 

The  next  day  was  a  great  day  in  Edinburgh — an  almost 
universal  holiday,  full  of  flags,  processions,  and  all  manner 
of  political  rejoicings — the  Reform  Jubilee.  Cosmo  plunged 
into  the  midst  of  it  with  all  the  zeal  of  a  young  politician  and 
all  the  zest  of  a  school-boy,  and  was  whirled  about  by  the 
crowd  through  all  its  moods  and  phases,  through  the  iieat, 
and  the  dust,  and  the  sunshine,  through  the  shouts  and 
groans,  the  applauses  and  the  denunciations,  to  his  heart's 
content.  He  came  in  breathless  somewhere  about  midday, 
as  he  supposed,  though  in  reality  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
to  snatch  a  hurried  morsel  of  the  dinner  which  Mrs.  Purdie 
had  vainly  endeavored  to  keep  warm  for  him,  and  to  leave 
a  message  for  Cameron  to  be  ready  for  him  in  the  evening, 
to  go  out  and  see  the  illumination.  When  Cosmo  reap 
peared  again,  flushed,  tired,  excited,  yet  perfectly  ready  to 
begin  once  more,  it  was  already  darkening  towards«night. 
Cameron  was  ready,  and  the  boy  was  not  to  be  persuaded 
to  lose  the  night  and  "  the  fun,"  which  already  began  to 
look  rather  like  mischief.  The  two  companions,  so  unlike 
each  other,  made  haste  to  the  Calton  Hill,  where  a  great 
many  people  had  already  preceded  them.  Oh,  dwellers  on 


THE    LAJRD     OF    NOBLAW.  185 

the  plains !  oh,  cockney  citizens ! — spite  of  your  gas  stars  and 
your  transparencies — your  royal  initials  and  festoons  of  lamps, 
don't  suppose  that  you  know  any  thing  about  an  illumina 
tion  ;  you  should  have  seen  the  lines  of  light  stealing  from 
slope  to  slope  along  the  rugged  glory  of  that  antique  Edin 
burgh — the  irregular  gleams  descending  into  the  valley,  the 
golden  threads,  here  and  there  broken,  that  intersected  the 
regular  lines  of  the  new  town.  Yonder  tall  houses,  seven 
stories  high,  where  every  man  is  a  Reformer,  and  where  the 
lights  come  out  in  every  window,  star  by  star,  in  a  flicker 
and  glow,  as  if  the  very  weakness  of  those  humble  candles 
gave  them  the  animation  and  humanness  of  a  breathing  tri 
umph — swelling  higher  towards  the  dark  Castle,  over  whose 
unlighted  head  the  little  moon  looks  down,  a  serene  spec 
tator  of  all  this  human  flutter  and  commotion — -undulating 
down  in  rugged  breaks  towards  lowly  Holyrood,  some 
times  only  a  thin  line  visible  beneath  the  roof — sometimes  a 
whole  house  aglow.  The  people  went  and  came,  in  excited 
groups,  upon  the  fragrant  grass  of  the  Calton  Hill ;  some 
times  turning  to  the  other  side  of  the  landscape,  to  see  the 
more  sparely  lighted  streets  of  gentility,  or  the  independent 
little  sparkle  which  stout  little  Leith  in  the  distance  threw 
out  upon  the  Firth — but  always  returning  with  unfailing 
fascination  to  this  scene  of  magic — the  old  town  shining 
with  its  lamps  and  jewels,  like  a  city  in  a  dream. 

But  it  was  not  destined  to  be  a  perfectly  calm  summer 
evening's  spectacle.  The  hum  of  the  full  streets  grew  riot 
ous  even  to  the  spectators  on  the  hill.  Voices  rose  above 
the  hum,  louder  than  peaceful  voices  ever  rise.  The  triumph 
was  a  popular  triumph,  and  like  every  other  such,  had  its 
attendant  mob  of  mischief.  Shouts  of  rising  clamor  and  a 
noise  of  rushing  footsteps  ran  through  the  busy  streets — 
then  came  a  sharp  rattle  and  peal  like  a  discharge  of  mus 
ketry.  What  was  it  ?  The  crowd  on  the  hill  poured  down 
the  descent,  in  fright,  in  excitement,  in  precaution — some 
into  the  mischief,  some. eager  to  escape  out  of  it.  "It's  the 
sodgers,"  "it's  the  police,"  "it's  the  Tories,"  shouted  the 
chorus  of  the  crowd — one  suggestion  after  another  raising 
the  fury  of  some  and  the  terror  of  others;  again  a  rattling, 
dropping,  continued  report — one  after  another,  with  rushes 
of  the  crowd  between,  and  perpetual  changes  of  locality 
in  the  sound,  which  at  last  indicated  its  nature  beyond 


186  THE     LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

mistake.  It  was  no  interference  of  authority — no  firing  of 
"  the  sodgers."  It  was  a  sound  less  tragic,  yet  full  of  mis 
chief — the  crash  of  unilluminated  windows,  the  bloodless  yet 
violent  revenge  of  the  excited  mob. 

The  sound — the  swell — the  clamor — the  tramp  of  feet — 
the  shouts — the  reiterated  volleys,  now  here,  now  there,  in 
constant  change  and  progress,  the  silent  flicker  and  glow  of 
the  now  neglected  lights,  the  hasty  new  ones  thrust  into 
exposed  windows,  telling  their  story  of  sudden  alarm  and 
reluctance,  and  above  all  the  pale,  serene  sky,  against  which 
the  bold  outline  of  Arthur's  Seat  stood  out  as  clear  as  in  the 
daylight,  and  the  calm,  unimpassioned  shining  of  the  little 
moon,  catching  the  windows  of  the  Castle  and  church  beneath 
with  a  glimmer  of  silver,  made  altogether  a  scene  of  the 
most  singular  excitement  and  impressiveness.  But  Cosmo 
Livingstone  had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  poet — he  was  only 
a  boy — a  desperate,  red-hot  Radical — a  friend  of  the  people. 
Despite  all  Cameron's  efforts,  the  boy  dragged  him  into  the 
crowd,  and  hurried  him  along  to  the  scene  of  action.  The 
rioters  by  this  time  were  spreading  everywhere,  out  of  the 
greater  streets  into  the  calm  of  the  highest  respectability, 
where  not  one  window  in  a  dozen  was  lighted,  and  where 
many  had  closed  their  shutters  in  defiance — far  to  the  west 
in  the  moonlight,  where  the  illuminations  of  the  old  town 
were  invisible,  and  where  wealth  and  conservatism  dwelt 
together.  Breathless,  yet  dragging  his  grave  companion 
after  him,  Cosmo  rushed  along  one  of  the  dimmest  and 
stateliest  of  these  streets.  The  lad  leaped  back  again  into 
the  heart  of  a  momentary  fancy,  which  was  already  old  and 
forgotten,  though  it  had  been  extremely  interesting  a  month 
ago.  He  cried  "Desiree!"  to  himself,  as  he  rushed  in  the 
wake  of  the  rioters  through  Moray  Place.  He  did  not 
know  which  was  the  house,  yet  followed  vaguely  with  an 
instinct  of  defense  and  protection.  In  one  of  the  houses 
some  women  appeared,  timidly  putting  forward  candles  in 
the  highest  line  of  windows ;  perhaps  out  of  exasperation 
at  this  cowardice,  perhaps  from  mere  accident,  some  one 
among  the  crowd  discharged  a  volley  of  stones  against  one 
of  the  lower  range.  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  it 
remained  doubtful  whether  this  lead  was  to  be  followed, 
when  suddenly  the  door  of  the  house  was  thrown  open,  and 
a  girl  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  distinctly  visible  against 


THE    LAIRD     OF    N.ORLAW.  187 

the  strong  light  from  the  hall.  Though  Cosmo  sprang  for 
ward  with  a  bound,  he  could  not  hear  what  she  said,  but 
she  rushed  down  on  the  broad  step,  and  made  a  vehement 
address  to  the  rioters,  with  lively  motions  of  her  hands,  and 
a  voice  that  pierced  through  their  rough  voices  like  a  note 
of  music.  This  lasted  only  a  moment ;  in  another  the  door 
had  closed  behind  her  with  a  loud  echo,  and  all  was  dark 
again.  Where  was  she  ?  Cosmo  pushed  through  the  crowd 
in  violent  excitement,  thrusting  them  away  on  every  side 
with  double  strength.  Yes,  there  she  stood  upon  the  step, 
indignant,  vehement,  with  her  little  white  hands  clasped 
together,  and  her  eyes  flashing,  from  the  rioters  before  her 
to  the  closed  door  behind. 

"You  English! — you  are  cowards!"  cried  the  violent 
little  heroine ;  "  you  do  not  fight  like  men,  with  balls  and 
swords — you  throw  pebbles,  like  children — you  wound 
women — and  when  one  dares  to  go  to  speak  to  the  mad 
men,  she  is  shut  out  into  the  crowd !" 

"  We're  no'  English,  missie,  and  naebody  meant  to  hurt 
you ;  chap  at  the  door  for  her,  yin  o'  you  lads — and  let  the 
poor  thing  alone — she's  a  very  good  spirit  of  her  ain.  I'm 
saying,  open  the  door,"  cried  one  of  the  rioters,  changing 
his  soothing  tone  to  a  loud  demand,  as  he  shook  the  closed 
door  violently.  By  this  time  Cosmo  was  by  the  little 
Frenchwoman's  side. 

"  I  know  her,"  cried  Cosmo,  "  they'll  open  when  you're 
past — pass  on — it's  a  school — a  housefull  of  women — do  you 
mean  to  say  you  would  break  a  lady's  windows  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it  ? — pass  on ! — is  that  sense,  or  honor, 
or  courage  ?  is  that  a  credit  to  the  Bill,  or  to  the  country  ? 
I'll  take  care  of  the  young  lady.  Do  you  not  see  they 
think  you  robbers,  or  worse?  They'll  not  open  till  you 
pass  on." 

44  He's  in  the  right  of  it  there— what  are  ye  a'  waiting 
for  ?]'  cried  some  one  in  advance.  The  throng  moved  on, 
leaving  a  single  group  about  the  door,  but  this  little  inci 
dent  was  enough  to  damp  them.  Moray  Place  escaped 
with  much  less  sacrifice  of  glass  and  temper  than  might 
have  been  looked  for — while  poor  little  Desiree,  subsid 
ing  out  of  her  passion,  leaned  against  the  pillar  of  the 
inhospitable  door,  crying  bitterly,  and  sobbing  little  excla 
mations  of  despair  in  her  own  tongue,  which  sounded 


188  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

sweet  to  Cosmo's  ear,  though  he  did  not  know  what  they 
were. 

"  Mademoiselle  Desiree,  don't  be  afraid,"  cried  the  boy, 
blushing  in  the  dark.  "  I  saw  you  once  with  Joanna  Hunt- 
ley — I'm  a  friend.  Nobody  will  meddle  with  you.  When 
they  see  these  fellows  gone,  they'll  open  the  door." 

"And  I  despise  them  !"  cried  Desiree,  suddenly  suspend 
ing  her  crying ;  "  they  will  shut  me  out  in  the  crowd  for 
fear  of  themselves.  I  despise  them  !  and  see  here  !" 

A  stone  had  struck  her  on  the  temple ;  it  was  no  great 
wound,  but  Desiree  was  shocked  and  excited,  and  in  a 
heroic  mood. 

"And  they  will  leave  me  here,"  cried  the  little  French 
woman,  pathetically,  with  renewed  tears;  "though  it  is  my 
mother's  country,  and  I  meant  to  love  it,  they  shut  me  out 
among  strangers,  and  no  one  cares.  Ah,  they  would  not 
do  so  in  France !  there  they  do  not  throw  stones  at  women 
— they  kill  men  !" 

Cosmo  was  horrified  by  the  blow,  and  deeply  impressed 
by  the  heroics.  The  boy  blushed  with  the  utmost  shame 
for  his  townsmen  and  co-politicians.  He  thought  the  girl  a 
little  Joan  of  Arc  affronted  by  a  mob. 

"But  it  was  accident;  and  every  man  would  be  over 
powered  with  shame,"  cried  Cosmo,  while  meanwhile 
Cameron,  who  had  followed  him,  knocked  soberly  and 
without  speaking,  at  the  door. 

After  a  little  interval,  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
mistress  of  the  school,  a  lady  of  grave  age  and  still  graver 
looks ;  a  couple  of  women-servants  in  the  hall  were  defend 
ing  themselves  eagerly. 

"  I  was  up  stairs,  and  never  heard  a  word  of  it,  mum," 
said  one.  "  Eh,  it  wasna  me !"  cried  another ;  "  the  French 
Miss  flew  out  upon  the  steps,  and  the  door  just  clashed 
behind  her ;  it  was  naebody's  blame  but  her  ain." 

In  the  midst  of  these  self-exculpatory  addresses,  the  mis 
tress  of  the  house  held  the  door  open. 

"  Come  in,  Mademoiselle  Desiree,"  she  said  gravely. 

The  excited  little  Frenchwoman  was  not  disposed  to 
yield  so  quietly. 

"Madame,  I  have  been  wounded,  I  have  been  shut  out,  I 
have  been  left  alone  in  the  crowd !"  cried  Desiree ;  "  I  de 
mand  of  you  to  do  me  justice — see,  I  bleed!  One  of  the 


THE    LAIRD    OF     NORLAW.  189 

vauriens  struck  me  through  the  window  with  a  stone,  and 
the  door  has  been  closed  upon  me.  I  have  stood  before  all 
the  crowd  alone !" 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady,  coldly; 
"  come  in — you  ought  never  to  have  gone  to  the  door,  or 
exposed  yourself;  young  ladies  do  not  do  so  in  this 
country.  Pray  come  in,  Mademoiselle  Desiree.  I  am 
sorry  you  are  hurt — and,  gentlemen,  we  are  much  obliged 
to  you — good  night." 

For  the  girl,  half-reluctantly,  half- indignantly,  had  obeyed 
her  superior,  and  the  door  was  calmly  closed  in  the  faces  of 
Cosmo  and  Cameron,  who  stood  together  on  the  steps. 
Cosmo  was  highly  incensed  and  wrathful.  He  could  have 
had  the  heart  to  plunge  into  that  cold,  proper,  lighted  hall, 
to  snatch  the  little  heroine  forth,  and  carry  her  off,  like  a 
knight  of  romance. 

"  Do  you  hear  how  that  woman  speaks  to  her  ?"  he  cried, 
indignantly. 

Cameron  grasped  his  arm  and  drew  him  away. 

"  She's  French !"  said  the  elder  man,  laconically,  and 
without  any  enthusiasm ;  "  and  not  to  anger  you,  Cosmo, 
the  lady  is  perfectly  right." 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

COSMO  went  home  that  evening  much  excited  by  his 
night's  adventures.  Mrs.  Payne,  of  Moray  Place,  was  an 
ogre  in  the  boy's  eyes,  the  Giantess  Despair,  holding  be 
witched  princesses  in  vile  durance  and  subjection — and 
Desiree,  with  the  red  mark  upon  her  pretty  forehead,  with 
her  little  white  hands  clasped  together,  and  her  black  eyes 
sparkling,  was  nothing  less  than  a  heroine.  Cosmo  could 
not  forget  the  pretty  attitude,  the  face  glowing  with  resent 
ment  and  girlish  boldness;  nor  the  cold  gravity  of  the  voice 
which  bade  her  enter,  and  the  unsympathetic  disapproval  in 
the  lady's  face.  He  could  not  rest  for  thinking  of  it  when 
he  got  home.  In  his  new  feeling  of  importance  and  influ 
ence  as  a  person  privileged  to  address  the  public,  his  first 
idea  was  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Payne  in  the  morning,  by  way 


190  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOBLAW. 

of  protector  to  Desiree,  to  explain  how  the  whole  matter 
occurred ;  but  on  further  thoughts  Cosmo  resolved  to  write 
a  very  grave  and  serious  letter  on  the  subject,  vindicating 
the  girl,  and  pointing  out,  in  a  benevolent  way,  the  danger 
of  repressing  her  high  spirit  harshly. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  set  about  carrying  out  this 
idea  in  an  epistle  worthy  the  pages  of  the  Auld  Reekie  Mag 
azine,  and  written  with  a  solemn  authority  which  would  have 
become  an  adviser  of  eighty  instead  of  eighteen.  He  wrote 
it  out  in  his  best  hand,  put  it  up  carefully,  and  resolved  to 
leave  it  himself  in  the  morning,  lest  the  post  (letters  were 
dear  in  those  days)  might  miscarry  with  so  important  a  doc 
ument.  But  Cosmo,  who  was  much  worn  out,  slept  late  in 
the  morning,  so  late  that  Cameron  came  into  his  room,  and 
saw  the  letter  before  he  was  up.  It  excited  the  curiosity  of 
the  Highlander,  and  Cosmo,  somewhat  shyly,  admitted  him 
to  the  privilege  of  reading  it.  It  proved  too  much,  how 
ever,  for  the  gravity  of  his  friend ;  and,  vexed  and  ashamed 
at  last,  though  by  no  means  convinced,  the  lad  tore  it  in 
bits,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire-place.  Cameron  kept  him 
occupied  all  day,  breaking  out,  nevertheless,  into  secret 
chuckles  of  amusement  now  and  then,  which  it  was  very 
difficult  to  find  a  due  occasion  for ;  and  Cosmo  was  not  even 
left  to  himself  long  enough  to  pass  the  door  of  the  house  in 
Moray  Place,  or  to  ask  after  the  "  wound"  of  his  little  hero 
ine.  He  did  the  only  thing  which  remained  possible  to  him, 
he  made  the  incident  into  a  copy  of  verses,  which  he  sent 
to  the  North  British  Courant,  and  which  duly  appeared  in 
that  enlightened  newspaper — though  whether  it  ever  reach 
ed  the  eyes  of  Desiree,  or  touched  the  conscience  of  the 
schoolmistress  by  those  allusions  which,  though  delicately 
vailed,  were  still,  Cosmo  flattered  himself,  perfectly  unmis 
takable  by  the  chief  actors  in  the  scene,  the  boy  could  not 
tell. 

These  days  of  holiday  flew,  however,  as  holidays  will  fly. 
Cameron's  Highland  patron  had  Cosmo  introduced  to  him, 
and  consented  that  his  son  should  travel  in  the  company  of 
the  son  of  "  Mrs.  Livingstone,  of  Norlaw,"  and  the  lad  went 
home,  full  of  plans  for  his  journey,  to  which  the  Mistress  as 
yet  had  given  only  a  very  vague  and  general  consent,  and 
of  which  she  scarcely  still  understood  the  necessity.  When 
Cosmo  came  home,  he  had  the  mid-chamber  allotted  to  him 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  191 

as  a  study,  and  went  to  work  with  devotion.  The  difficulty 
was  rather  how  to  choose  between  the  narrative  in  ballad 
verse,  the  spirited  dramatic  sketch,  and  the  historical  tale, 
than  how  to  execute  them,  for  Cosmo  had  that  facility  of 
language,  and  even  of  idea,  which  many  very  youthful  peo 
ple,  with  a  "  literary  turn,"  (they  were  very  much  less  com 
mon  in  those  days)  often  possess,  to  the  half-amusement, 
half-admiration  of  their  seniors  andftheir  own  intense  confu 
sion  in  maturer  days.  Literature  was  not  then  what  it  is 
now,  the  common  resource  of  most  well-educated  young 
men,  who  do  not  know  what  else  to  do  with  themselves.  It 
was  still  a  rare  glory  in  that  rural  district  where  the  mantle 
of  Sir  Walter  lay  only  over  the  great  novelist's  grave,  and 
had  descended  upon  nobody's  shoulders ;  and  as  Cosmo  went 
on  with  his  venture,  the  Mistress,  glowing  with  mother-pride 
and  ambition,  hearing  the  little  bits  of  the  "sketch" — eight 
een  is  always  dramatical — which  seemed,  to  her  loving  ears, 
melodious,  and  noble,  and  life-like,  almost  above  comparison, 
became  perfectly  willing  to  consent  to  any  thing  which  was 
likely  to  perfect  this  gift  of  magic.  "  Though  I  canna  weel 
see  what  better  they  could  have,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
went  down  from  Cosmo's  study,  wiping  her  eyes.  Cosmo's 
muse  had  sprung,  fully  equipped,  like  Slinerva,  into  a  glori 
ous  existence — at  least,  so  his  mother,  and  so,  too,  if  he  had 
permitted  himself  to  know  his  own  sentiments — perhaps  also 
Cosmo  thought. 

The  arrangement  was  concluded,  at  last,  on  the  comple 
tion  of  Cosmo's  article.  Cameron  and  his  young  pupil  were 
to  start  in  August ;  and  the  Mistress  herself  went  into  Edin 
burgh  to  buy  her  boy-author  the  handiest  of  portmanteaus, 
and  every  thing  else  which  her  limited  experience  thought 
needful  for  him  ;  the  whole  country-side  heard  of  his  intend 
ed  travels,  and  was  stirred  with  wonder  and  no  small  amount 
of  derision.  The  farmers'  wives  wondered  what  the  world 
was  coming  to,  and  their  husbands  shook  their  heads  over 
the  folly  of  the  widow,  who  would  ruin  her  son  for  work  all 
his  days.  The  news  was  soon  carried  to  Melrnar,  where  Mr. 
Huntley  by  no  means  liked  to  hear  it,  where  Patricia  turned 
up  her  little  nose  with  disgust,  and  where  Joanna  wished 
loudly  that  she  was  going  too,  and  announced  her  deter 
mination  to  intrust  Cosmo  with  a  letter  to  Oswald.  Even 
in  the  manse,  the  intelligence  created  a  little  ferment.  Dr. 


192  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

Logan  connected  it  vaguely — he  could  not  quite  tell  how — 
with  the  "Bill,"  which  the  excellent  minister  feared  would 
revolutionize  every  thing  throughout  the  country,  and  con 
found  all  the  ranks  and  degrees  of  social  life ;  and  shook  his 
head  over  the  idea  of  Cosmo  Livingstone,  who  had  only 
been  one  session  at  college,  and  was  bnt  eighteen,  writing 
in  a  magazine. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  Katie,  my  dear,  it's  an  unnatural  state 
of  things,"  said  the  Doctor,  whose  literature  was  the  litera 
ture  of  the  previous  century,  and  who  thought  Cosmo's 
pretensions  unsafe  for  the  stability  of  the  country. 

And  sensible  Katie,  though  she  smiled,  felt  still  a  little 
doubtful  herself,  and,  in  her  secret  heart,  thought  of  Hunt- 
ley  gone  away  to  labor  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  while 
his  boy-brother  tasted  the  sweets  of  luxury  and  idleness  in 
an  indulgence  so  unusual  to  his  station. 

"  Poor  Huntley !"  said  Katie  to  herself,  with  a  gentle  rec 
ollection  of  that  last  scene  in  the  manse  parlor,  when  she 
mended  her  children's  stockings  and  smiled  at  the  young 
emigrant,  as  he  wondered  what  changes  there  might  be  there 
when  he  came  back.  Katie  put  up  her  hand  very  softly  to 
her  eyes,  and  stood  a  long  time  in  the  garden  looking  down 
the  brae  into  the  village — perhaps  only  looking  at  little  Co 
lin,  who  was  visible  amid  some  cottage  boys  on  the  green 
bank  of  Tyne — perhaps  thinking  of  Cosmo,  who  was  going 
"  to  the  Continent," — perhaps  traveling  still  further  in  her 
thoughts,  over  a  big  solitary  sea ;  but  Katie  said  "  nothing 
to  nobody,"  and  was  as  blythe  and  busy  in  the  manse  par 
lor  when  the  minister  rejoined  her,  as  though  she  had  not 
entered  with  a  little  sigh. 

All  this  time  Cosmo  never  said  a  word  to  his  mother  of 
Mary  of  Melmar ;  but  he  leaped  up  into  the  old  window  of 
the  castle  every  evening  to  dream  his  dream,  and  a  hundred 
times,  in  fancy,  saw  a  visionary  figure,  pale,  and  lovely,  and 
tender,  coining  home  with  him  to  claim  her  own.  He,  too, 
looked  over  the  woods  of  Melmar  as  his  brother  had  done, 
but  with  feelings  very  different — for  no  impulse  of  acquisi 
tion  quickened  in  the  breast  of  Cosmo.  He  thought  of  them 
as  the  burden  of  a  romance,  the  chorus  of  a  ballad — the  in 
heritance  to  which  the  long  lost  Mary  must  return  ;  and 
while  the  Mistress  stocked  his  new  portmanteau,  and  made 
ready  his  traveling  wardrobe,  the  lad  was  hunting  every- 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  193 

where  with  ungrateful  pertinacity  for  scraps  of  information 
to  guide  him  in  this  search  which  his  mother  had  not  the 
most  distant  idea  was  the  real  motive  of  his  journey.  If  she 
had  known  it,  scarcely  even  the  discovery  of  her  husband's 
longing  after  his  lost  love  could  have  affected  the  Mistress 
with  more  overpowering  bitterness  and  disgust.  Marget  shut 
the  door  when  Cosmo  came  to  question  her  on  the  subject, 
and  made  a  vehement  address  to  him  under  her  breath. 

"Seek  her,  if  you  please,"  said  Marget,  in  a  violent 
whisper ;  "  but  if  your  mother  ever  kens  this — sending  out 
her  son  into  the  world  with  a'  this  pride  and  pains  for  her 
sake — I'd  rather  the  auld  castle  fell  on  our  heads,  Cosmo 
Livingstone,  and  crushed  every  ane  of  us  under  a  different 
stane !" 

"Hush,  Marget!  my  mother  is  not  unjust,"  said  Cosmo, 
with  some  displeasure. 

"She's  no'  unjust;  but  she'll  no'  be  second  to  a  stranger 
woman  that  has  been  the  vexation  of  her  life,"  said  Marget, 
"  spier  where  you  like,  laddie.  Ye  dinna  ken,  the  like  of 
you,  how  things  sink  into  folks'  hearts,  and  bide  for  years. 
I  ken  naething  about  Mary  of  Me'mar — neither  her  married 
name  nor  naught  else — spier  where  ye  like,  but  dinna  spier 
at  me." 

But  it  did  not  make  very  much  matter  where  Cosmo 
made  inquiry.  Never  was  disappearance  more  entire  and 
complete  than  that  of  Mary  of  Melmar.  He  gathered  vari 
ous  vague  descriptions  of  her,  not  quite  so  poetical  in  senti 
ment  as  Jaacob's,  but  quite  as  confusing.  She  was  "  a  great 
toast  among  a'  the  lads,  and  the  bonniest  woman  in  the 
country-side" — she  was  "  as  sweet  as  a  May  morning"— -she 
was  "neither  big  nor  little,  but  just  the  best  woman's  size" 
— she  was,  in  short,  every  thing  that  was  pretty,  indefinite, 
and  perplexing.  And  with  no  clue  but  this,  Cosmo  set  out, 
on  a  windy  August  morning,  on  his  travels,  to  improve  his 
mind,  and  write  for  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine,  as  his 
mother  thought — and  to  seek  for  the  lost  heir  of  the  Hunt- 
leys,  as  he  himself  and  the  Laird  of  Melmar  knew. 

9 


194  THE    LAIBD    OF    NORLAW. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

"On,  papa,"  cried  Joanna  Huntley,  bursting  into  Mel- 
mar's  study  like  a  whirlwind,  u  they're  ill-using  Desiree ! 
they  shut  her  out  at  the  door  among  a  crowd,  and  they 
threw  stones  at  her,  and  she  might  have  been  killed  but  for 
Cosmo  Livingstone.  I'll  no'  stand  it !  I'll  rather  go  and 
take  up  a  school  and  work  for  her  mysel'." 

"What's  all  this?"  said  Melmar,  looking  up  in  amaze 
ment  from  his  newspaper;  "another  freak  about  this 
Frenchwoman — what  is  she  to  you  ?" 

"She's  my  friend,"  said  Joanna,  "I  never  had  a  friend 
before,  and  I  never  want  to  have  another.  You  never  saw 
anybody  like  her  in  all  your  life;  Melmar's  no'  good  enough 
for  her,  if  she  could  get  it  for  her  very  own — but  I  think 
she  would  come  here  for  me." 

"  That  Avould  be  kind,"  said  Mr.  Huntley,  taking  a  some 
what  noisy  pinch  of  snuff;  "  but  if  that's  all  you  have  to  tell 
me,  it'll  keep.  Go  away  and  bother  your  mother;  I'm  busy 
to-day." 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  mamma's  no'  up,"  said 
Joanna,  "  and  if  she  was  up,  what's  the  use  of  bothering 
her?  Now,  papa,  I'll  tell  you — I  often  think  you're  a 
very,  very  ill  man — and  Patricia  says  you  have  a  secret, 
and  I  know  what  keeps  Oswald  year  after  year  away — but 
I'll  forgive  you  every  thing  if  you'll  send  for  Desiree  here." 

"You  little  monkey!"  cried  Melmar,  swinging  his  arm 
through  the  air  with  a  menaced  blow.  It  did  not  fall  on 
Joanna's  cheek,  however,  and  perhaps  was  not  meant  to 
fall — which  was  all  the  better  for  the  peace  of  the  house 
hold — -though  feelings  of  honor  or  delicacy  were  not  so 
transcendentally  high  in  Melmar  as  to  have  made  a  parental 
chastisement  a  deadly  affront  to  the  young  lady,  even  had 
it  been  inflicted.  "  You  little* brat !"  repeated  the  incensed 
papa,  growing  red  in  the  face,  "  how  dare  you  ccftne  to  me 
with  such  a  speech — how  dare  you  bother  me  with  a  couple 
of  fools  like  Oswald  and  Patricia  ? — begone  this  moment,  or 
I'll—" 

"  No,  you  will  not,  papa,"  interrupted  Joanna.    "  Oswald's 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW.  195 

no'  a  fool — and  I'm  no'  a  monkey  nor  a  brat,  nor  little 
either — and  if  any  thing  was  to  happen  I  would  never  for 
sake  you,  whatever  you  had  done — but  I  like  Desiree  better 
than  ever  I  liked  any  one — and  she  knows  every  thing — 
and  she  could  teach  me  better  than  all  the  masters  and  mis 
tresses  in  Edinburgh — and  if  you  don't  send  for  her  here  to 
be  my  governess,  I  may  go  to  school,  but  I'll  never  learn  a 
single  thing  again !" 

Melmar  was  perfectly  accustomed  to  be  bullied  by  his 
youngest  child ;  he  had  no  ideal  of  feminine  excellence  to 
be  shocked  by  Joanna's  rudeness,  and  in  general  rather 
enjoyed  it,  and  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  disrespectful 
straightforwardness  of  the  girl,  who  in  reality  was  the  only 
member  of  his  family  who  had  any  love  for  him.  His 
momentary  passion  soon  evaporated — he  laughed  and  shook 
his  closed  hand  at  her,  no  longer  threateningly. 

"  If  you  like  to  grow  up  a  dunce,  Joan,"  he  said,  with  a 
chuckle,  "  what  the  deevil  matter  is't  to  me  ?" 

" Oh,  yes,  but  it  is,  though,"  said  Joanna.  "I  know  bet 
ter — you  like  people  to  come  to  Melmar  as  well  as  Patricia 
does — and  Patricia  never  can  be  very  good  for  any  thing. 
She  canna  draw,  though  she  pretends — and  she  canna  play, 
and  she  canna  sing,,  and  I  could  even  dance  better  myself. 
It's  aye  like  lessons  to  see  her  and  hear  her — and  nobody 
cares  to  come  to  see  mamma — it's  no'  her  fault,  for  she's 
always  in  bed  or  on  the  sofa ;  but  if  I  like  to  learn — do  you 
hear,  papa  ? — and  I  would  like  if  Desiree  was  here — I  know 
what  Melmar  might  be !" 

It  was  rather  odd  to  look  at  Joanna,  with  her  long, 
angular,  girl's  figure,  her  red  hair,  and  her  bearing  which 
promised  nothing  so  little  as  the  furthest  off  approach  to 
elegance,  and  to  listen  to  the  confidence  and  boldness  of 
this  self-assertion—even  her  father  laughed — but,  perhaps 
because  he  was  her  father,  did  not  fully  perceive  the  gro 
tesque  contrast  between  her  appearance  and  her  words ;  on 
the  contrary,  Melmar  was  considerably  impressed  with  these 
last,  and  put  faith  in  them,  a  great  deal  more  faith  than  he 
had  ever  put  in  Patricia's  prettiness  and  gentility,  cultivated 
as  these  had  been  in  the  refined  atmosphere  of  the  Clapham 
school. 

"  You  are  a  vain  little  blockhead,  Joan,"  said  Mr.  Hunt- 
ley,  "  which  I  scarcely  looked  for— but  it's  in  the  nature  of 


196  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

woman.  When  Aunt  Jean  leaves  you  her  fortune,  we'll  see 
whatagrand  figure  you'll  make  in  the  country.  AFrench  gov 
erness,  forsooth  !  the  bairn's  crazy.  I'll  get  her  to  teach  me." 

"  She  could  teach  you  a  great  many  things,  papa,"  said 
Joanna,  with  gravity,  "  so  you  need  not  laugh.  I'm  going 
to  write  to  her  this  moment,  and  say  she's  to  come  here — 
and  you're  to  write  to  Mrs.  Payne  and  tell  her  what  you'll 
give,  and  how  she's  to  come,  and  every  thing.  Desiree  is 
not  pleased  with  Mrs.  Payne." 

"  What  a  pity  !"  said  Melmar,  laughing  ;  "  and  possibly, 
Joan — you  ought  to  consider — Desiree  might  not  be  pleased 
with  me." 

"  You  are  kind  whiles — when  you  like,  papa,"  said  Joanna, 
taking  this  possibility  into  serious  consideration,  and  fixing 
her  sharp  black  eyes  upon  her  father,  with  half  an  entreaty, 
half  a  defiance. 

Somehow  this  appeal,  which  he  did  not  expect,  was  quite 
a  stroke  of  victory,  and  silenced  Melmar.  He  laughed  once 
more  in  his  loud  and  not  very  mirthful  fashion,  and  the  end 
of  the  odd  colloquy  was,  that  Joanna  conquered,  and  that, 
to  the  utter  amazement  of  mother,  sister,  and  Aunt  Jean, 
the  approaching  advent  of  a  French  governess  for  Joanna 
became  a  recognized  event  in  the  house.  Patricia  spent  one 
good  long  summer  afternoon  crying  over  it. 

"  No  one  ever  thought  of  getting  a  governess  for  me  !" 
sobbed  Patricia,  through  a  deluge  of  spiteful  tears. 

And  Aunt  Jean  put  up  her  spectacles  from  her  eyes,  and 
listened  to  the  news  which  Joanna  shouted  into  her  ear,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  If  she's  a  Papist  it's  a  tempting  of  Providence,"  said 
Aunt  Jean,  "  and  they're  a'  Papists,  if  they're  no'  infidels. 
She  may  be  nice  enough  and  bonnie  enough,  but  I  canna 
approve  of  it,  Joan.  I  never  had  any  broo  of  foreigners  a' 
my  days.  Deseery  ?  fhat  ca'  you  her  name  ?  I  like  names 
to  be  Christian-like,  for  my  part.  Did  ever  ye  hear  that,  or 
the  like  o'  that,  in  the  Scriptures  ?  Na,  Joan,  it's  very  far 
from  likely  she  should  please  me." 

"  Her  name  is  Desiree,  and  it  means  desired ;  it's  like  a 
Bible  name  for  that,"  cried  Joanna.  "  My  name  means 
nothing  at  all  that  ever  I  heard  of — it's  just  a  copy  of  a 
boy's — and  I  would  not  have  copied  a  man  if  anybody  had 
asked  me." 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  197 

"  What's  that  the  bairn  says  ?"  said  Aunt  Jean.  "  I  like 
old-fashioned  plain  names,  for  my  part,  but  that's  to  be  looked 
for  in  an  old  woman ;  but  I  can  tell  you,  Joan,  I'm  never 
easy  in  my  mind  about  French  folk — and  never  can  tell  fha 
they  may  turn  out  to  be ;  and  'deed  in  this  house,  it's  no 
canny ;  and  I  never  have  ony  comfort  in  my  mind  about 
your  brother  Oswald,  kenning  faur  he  was." 

"  Why  is  it  not  canny  in  this  house,  Aunt  Jean  ?"  asked 
Joanna. 

"  Eh,  fhat's  that  ?"  said  the  old  woman,  who  heard  per 
fectly,  "f hat's  no  canny?  just  the  Pope  o'  Rome,  Joan,  and 
a'  his  devilries ;  and  they're  as  fu'  o'  wiles,  every  ane,  as  if 
ilka  bairn  was  bred  up  a  priest.  Oh,  tie,  na  !  you  ma  ca'  her 
desired,  if  you  like,  but  she's  no'  desired  by  me." 

"  Desired  !"  cried  Patricia ;  "  a  little  creature  of  a  gov 
erness,  that  is  sure  always  to  be  scheming  and  trying  to  be 
taken  notice  of,  and  making  herself  as  good  as  we  are.  It's 
just  a  great  shame !  it's  nothing  else.!  no  one  ever  thought 
of  a  governess  for  me.  But  it's  strange  how  I  always  get 
slighted,  whatever  happens.  I  don't  think  any  one  in  the 
world  cares  for  me  !" 

"  Fhat's  Patricia  greeting  about  ?"  said  Aunt  Jean,  "  eh, 
bairns !  if  I  were  as  young  as  you  I  would  save  up  a'  my 
tears  for  real  troubles.  You've  never  kent  but  good  for 
tune  a'  your  days,  but  that's  no'  to  say  ill  fortune  can  never 
come.  Whisht  then,  ye  silly  thing !  I  can  see  you,  though 
I  canna  hear  you.  Fhat's  she  greeting  for,  Joan  ?  eh !  speak 
louder,  I  canna  "hear." 

"  Because  Desiree  is  coming,"  shouted  Joan. 

"  Aweel,  aweel,  maybe  I'm  little  better  mysel',"  said  the 
old  woman.  -"  I'm  just  a  prejudiced  auld  wife,  I  like  my  ain 
country  best — but's  no  malice  and  envie  with  me ;  fhat  ails 
Patricia  at  her  for  a  stranger  she  doesna  ken  ?  She's  keen 
enough  about  strangers  when  they  come  in  her  ain  way. 
You're  a  wild  lassie,  Joan,  you're  no'  just  fhat  I  would 
like  to  see  you — but  there's  nae  malice  in  you,  so  far  as 
I  ken." 

"  Oh,  Auntie  Jean,"  cried  Joanna,  with  enthusiasm,  "  wait 
till  you  see  what  I  shall  be  when  Desiree  comes !» 


198  THE    LAIKD    OP    NOKLAW. 


CHAPTEE   XL. 

AFTER  a  little  time  Desiree  came  to  Melmar.  She  had 
been  placed  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Payne  by  an  English  lady, 
who  had  brought  her  from  her  home  in  France  with  the  in 
tention  of  making  a  nursery  governess  of  the  little  girl,  but 
who,  finding  her  either  insufficiently  trained  or  not  tractable 
enough,  had  transferred  her,  with  the  consent  of  her  mother, 
to  the  Edinburgh  boarding-school  as  half  pupil,  half  teacher. 
When  Melmar's  proposal  came,  Desiree,  still  indignant  at 
her  present  ruler,  accepted  it  eagerly,  declared  herself  quite 
competent  to  act  independently,  and  would  not  hear  of  any 
body  being  consulted  upon  the  matter.  She  herself,  the  little 
heroine  said,  with  some  state,  would  inform  her  mother,  and 
she  made  her  journey  accordingly  half  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Payne, 
who,  however,  was  by  no  means  ill  pleased  to  transfer  so  dif 
ficult  a  charge  into  other  hands.  Desiree  arrived  alone  on 
an  August  afternoon,  by  the  coach,  in  Kirkbride.  The  homely 
little  Scotch  village,  so  unlike  any  thing  she  had  seen  before, 
yet  so  pretty,  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  its  little  brown 
stream,  pleased  the  girl's  fanciful  imagination  mightily.  Two 
or  three  people — among  them  the  servant  from  Melmar  who 
had  come  to  meet  her — stood  indolently  in  the  sultry  sun 
shine  about  the  Norlaw  Arms.  In  the  shadow  of  the  corner, 
bowed  Jaacob's  weird  figure  toiled  in  the  glow  of  the  smithy. 
One  or  two  women  were  at  the  door  of  tht!  cottage  which 
contained  the  widow's  mangle,  and  the  opposite  bank  lay 
fair  beneath  the  light,  with  that  white  gable  of  the  manse 
beaming  down  among  its  trees  like  a  smile.  The  wayward, 
excitable  little  Frenchwoman  had  a  tender  little  heart  be 
neath  all  her  vivacity  and  caprices.  Somehow  her  eyes 
sought  instinctively  that  white  house  on  the  brae,  and  in 
stinctively  the  little  girl  thought  of  her  mother  and  sister. 
Ah,  yes,  this  surely,  and  not  Edinburgh,  was  her  mother's 
country !  She  had  never  seen  it  before,  yet  it  seemed  fa 
miliar  to  her ;  they  could  be  at  home  here.  And  thoughts 
of  acquiring  that  same  white  house,  and  bringing  her  mother 
to  it  in  triumph,  entered  the  wild  little  imagination.  Women 
make  fortunes  in  France  now  and  then ;  she  did  not  know 
any  better,  and  she  was  a  child.  She  vowed  to  herself  to 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  199 

buy  the  white  house  on  the  brae  and  bring  mamma 
there. 

Melmar  pleased  Desiree,  but  not  so  much  ;  she  thought 
it  a  great  deal  too  square  and  like  a  prison ;  and  Patricia 
did  not  please  her  at  all,  as  she  was  not  very  slow  to 
intimate. 

"  Mademoiselle  does  not  love  me,  Joanna,"  she  said  to 
her  pupil  as  they  wandered  about  the  banks  of  Tyne  to 
gether,  "  to  see  every  thing,"  as  Joanna  said  before  they 
began  their  lessons ;  "  and  I  never  can  love  any  one  who 
does  not  love  me." 

"  Patricia  does  not  love  anybody,"  cried  Joanna,  "  unless 
maybe  herself,  and  not  herself  either — right;  but  never 
mind,  Desiree,  ./love  you,  and  by-and-by  so  will  Aunt  Jean; 
and  oh !  if  Oswald  would  only  come  home  !" 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  while  I  am  here,"  said  Desiree,  with 
a  little  frown  ;  "  see  !  how  pretty  the  sun  streams  among 
the  trees  ;  but  I  do  not  like  Melmar  so  well  as  that  white 
house  at  the  village  ;  I  should  like  to  live  there." 

"At  the  manse  ?"  cried  Joanna. 

"  What  is  the  manse  ?  it  is  not  a  great  house ;  would 
they  sell  it  ?"  said  Desiree. 

"  Sell  it !"  Joanna  laughed  aloud  in  the  contempt  of  supe 
rior  knowledge ;  "  but  it's  only  because  you  don't  know ; 
they  could  as  well  sell  the  church  as  the  manse." 

"  I  don't  want  the  church,  however — it's  ugly,"  said  De 
siree  ;  "  but  if  I  had  money  I  should  buy  that  white  house, 
and  bring  mamma  and  Maria  there." 

"  Eh,  Desiree  !  your  mamma  is  English — I  heard  you  say 
so,"  cried  Joanna. 

"  Eh  bien  I  did  I  ever  tell  you  otherwise  ?"  said  the  little 
Frenchwoman,  impatiently ;  "  she  would  love  that  white 
house  on  the  hill." 

"  Did  she  teach  you  to  speak  English  ?"  asked  Joanna, 
"  because  everybody  says  you  speak  so  well  for  a  French 
woman — and  I  think  so  myself;  and  papa  said  you  looked 
quite  English  to  him,  and  he  thought  he  knew  some  one 
like  you,  and  you  were  not  like  a  foreigner  at  all." 

The  pretty  little  shoulders  gave  .an  immediate  shrug, 
which  demonstrated  their  nationality  with  emphasis. 

"  Every  one  must  think  what  every  one  pleases,"  said  De 
siree.  "  Who,  then,  lives  in  that  white  house  ?  I  remenv 


200  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOKLAW. 

ber  mamma  once  spoke  of  such  a  house,  with  a  white  gable 
and  a  great  tree.  Mamma  loves  rivers  and  trees.  I  think, 
when  she  was  a  child,  she  must  have  been  here." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Joanna,  opening  her  eyes  wide. 

"  I  know  not  why,"  said  Desiree,  still  with  a  little  impa 
tience,  as  she  glanced  hurriedly  round  with  -a  sudden  look 
of  half-confused  consideration ;  l<  but  either  some  one  has 
told  me  of  this  place,  or  I  have  been  here  in  a  dream." 

It  was  the  loveliest  dell  of  Tyne.  The  banks  rose  so 
high  on  either  side,  and  were  so  richly  dotted  with  trees, 
that  it  was  only  here  and  there,  through  breaks  in  the  foli 
age,  that  you  could  catch  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  browr 
river,  foaming  over  a  chance  rock,  or  sparkling  under  some 
dropping  line  of  sunshine  which  reached  it,  by  sweet  caprice 
and  artifice  of  nature,  through  an  avenue  of  divided  branches. 
The  path  where  the  two  girls  stood  together  was  at  a  con 
siderable  height  above  the  stream;  and  close  by  them,  in  a 
miniature  ravine,  thickly  fringed  with  shrubs,  poured  down 
a  tiny,  dazzling  waterfall,  white  as  foam  against  the  back 
ground  of  dark  soil  and  rocks,  the  special  feature  of  the 
scene.  Desiree  stood  looking  at  it  with  her  little  French 
hands  clasped  together,  and  the  chiming  of  the  water  woke 
strange  fancies  in  her  mind.  Had  she  seen  it  somewhere,  in 
fairy-land  or  in  dreams  ? — or  had  she  heard  of  it  in  that 
time  which  was  as  good  as  either — when  she  was  a  child  ? 
She  stood  quite  silent,  saying  nothing  to  Joanna,  who  soon 
grew  weary  of  this  pause,  complimentary  as  it  might  be. 
Desiree  was  confused  and  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
She  said  no  more  of  the  white  house,  and  not  much  more  of 
her  own  friends,  and  kept  wondering  to  herself  as  she  went 
back,  answering  Joanna's  questions  and  talking  of  their 
future  lessons,  what  strange  sentiment  of  recollection  could 
have  moved  her  in  sight  of  that  waterfall.  It  was  very 
hard  to  make  it  out. 

And  no  doubt  it  was  because  Desiree's  mother  was  Eng 
lish  that  Aunt  Jane  could  not  keep  up  her  prejudice  against 
the  foreigner,  but  gradually  lapsed  to  Joanna's  opinion,  and 
day  by  day  fell  in  love  with  the  little  stranger.  She  was 
not  a  very,  very  good  girl — she  was  rather  the  reverse,  if 
truth  must  be  told.  She  had  no  small  amount  of  pretty 
little  French  affectations,  and  when  she  was  naughty  fell 
back  upon  her  own  language,  especially  with  Patricia,  whose 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW.  201 

Clapham  French  was  not  much  different  from  the  French  of 
Stratford-atte-Bowe,  and  who  began  with  vigor  and  reality 
to  entertain,  not  a  feeble  prejudice  but  a  hearty  dislike,  to 
the  invader.  Neither  did  she  do  what  good  governesses 
are  so  like  to  do,  at  least  in  novels — she  did  not  take  the 
place  of  her  negligent  daughters  with  the  invalid  Mrs. 
Huntley,  nor  remodel  the  disorderly  household.  Some 
times,  indeed,  out  of  pure  hatred  to  things  ugly,  Desiree 
put  a  sofa-cover  straight,  or  spread  down  a  corner  of  the 
crumb-cloth ;  but  she  did  not  captivate  the  servants,  and 
charm  the  young  ladies  into  good  order  and  good  behavior ; 
she  exercised  no  very  astonishing  influence  in  that  way  over 
even  Joanna.  She  was  by  no  means  a  model  young  lady  in 
herself,  and  had  no  special  authority,  so  far  as  she  was  aware 
of.  She  taught  her  pupil,  who  was  one  half  bigger  than 
herself,  to  speak  French  very  tolerably,  and  to  practice  a 
certain  time  every  day.  She  took  charge  of  Joanna's  big 
hands,  and  twisted,  and  coaxed,  and  pinched  them  into  a  less 
clumsy  thump,  upon  the  trembling  keys  of  the  piano.  She 
mollified  her  companion's  manners  even  unconsciously,  and 
suggested  improvements  in  the  red  hair  and  brown  merino 
frock  ;  but  having  done  this,  Desiree  was  not  aware  of  having 
any  special  charge  of  the  general  morals  and  well-being  of 
the  family ;  she  was  rather  a  critic  of  the  same,  indeed,  but 
she  was  not  a  Mentor  nor  a  reformer.  She  obeyed  what 
rules  there  were  in  the  sloven  house — she  shrugged  her  little 
French  shoulders  at  the  discomforts  and  quarrels.  She  some 
times  pouted,  or  curled  her  little  disdainful  upper  lip;  but  she 
took  nobody's  part  save  Joanna's,  whom  she  always  defended 
manfully.  It  was  not  a  particularly  brilliant  or  entertaining 
life  for  Desiree.  Melmar  himself,  with  his  grizzled  red  hair, 
and  heated  face  ;  Mrs.  Huntley,  who  sometimes  never  left 
her  room  all  day,  and  who,  when  she  did,  lay  on  a  sofa ;  Pa 
tricia,  who  was  spiteful,  and  did  her  utmost  to  shut  out  both 
Joanna  and  Desiree  when  any  visitors  came  to  break  the 
tedium — were  not  remarkably  delightful  companions ;  and 
as  the  winter  closed  in,  and  there  were  long  evenings,  and 
less  pleasure  out  of  doors — winter,  when  all  the  fires  looked 
half  choked,  and  would  not  burn,  and  when  a  perennial  fog 
seemed  to  lie  over  Melmar,  did  not  increase  the  comforts  of 
the  house.  Yet  it  happened  that  Desiree  was  by  no  means 
unhappy  ;  perhaps  at  sixteen  it  is  hard  to  be  really  unhappy, 


202  THE    LAIKD    OP    NOEL  ATT. 

even  when  one  feels  one  ought,  unless  one  has  some  very 
positive  reason  for  it.  Joanna  and  she  sat  together  at  the 
scrambling  breakfast,  which  Patricia  was  always  too  late  for ; 
then  they  went  to  the  music  lesson,  which  tried  Joanna's 
patience  grievously,  but  which  Desiree  managed  to  get 
some  fun  out  of,  and  endured  with  great  philosophy.  Then 
they  read  together,  and  the  unfortunate  Joanna  inked  her 
fingers  over  her  French  exercise.  In  the  afternoon  they 
walked — save  when  Joanna  was  compelled  to  accompany 
her  sister  "  in  the  carriage,"  a  state  ceremonial  in  which  the 
little  governess  was  never  privileged  to  share  ;  and  after 
their  return  from  their  walk,  Desiree  taught  her  pupil  all 
manner  of  fine  needleworks,  in  which  she  was  herself  more 
than  usually  learned,  and  which  branch  of  knowledge  was 
highly  prized  by  Aunt  Jean,  and  even  by  Mrs.  Huntley. 
Such  was  the  course  of  study  pursued  by  Joanna  under  the 
charge  of  her  little  governess  of  sixteen. 


CHAPTER     XLI. 

"A  FRENCH  governess ! — she  is  not  French,  though  she 
might  be  born  in  France.  Anybody  might  be  born  in 
France,"  said  Patricia,  with  some  scorn  ;  "  but  her  mother 
was  Scotch — no,  not  English,  Joanna,  I  know  better — just 
some  Scotchwoman  from  the  country  ;  I  should  not  wonder 
if  she  was  a  little  impostor,  after  all." 

"  You  had  better  take  care,"  cried  Joanna,  "  I'm  easier 
affronted  than  Desiree  ;  you  had  better  not  say  much  more 
to  me." 

"  It  is  true  though,"  said  Patricia,  with  triumph  ;  "  she 
took  quite  a  fancy  to  Kirkbride,  when  she  came  first,  and 
was  sure  she  had  heard  of  the  Kelpie  waterfall.  I  expect 
it  will  turn  out  some  poor  family  from  this  quarter  that 
have  gone  to  France  and  changed  their  name.  Joanna 
may  be  as  foolish  about  her  as  she  likes,  but  I  know  she 
never  was  a  true  Frenchwoman  by  her  look.  I  have  seen 
French  people  many  a  time  in  England." 

"  Yet  you  always  look  as  if  you  would  like  to  eat  Desiree 
when  she  speaks  to  you  in  French,"  said  Joanna,  with  a 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  203 

spice  of  malice  ;  "  if  you  knew  French  people,  you  should 
like  the  language." 

"  Low  people  don't  pronounce  as  ladies  do,"  said  Patricia. 
"  Perhaps  she  was  not  even  born  in  France,  for  all  she  says 
— and  I  am  quite  sure  her  mother  was  some  country  girl 
from  near  Kirkbride." 

"  What  is  that  you  say  ?"  said  Melmar,  who  was  present, 
and  whose  attention  had  at  last  been  caught  by  the  discus 
sion. 

"  I  say  Joanna's  French  governess  is  not  French,  papa. 
Her  mother  was  a  Scotchwoman  and  came  from  this  coun 
try,"  cried  Patricia,  eagerly.  "  I  think  she  belongs  to  some 
poor  family  who  have  gone  abroad  and  changed  their  name 
— perhaps  her  father  was  a  poacher,  or  something,  and  had 
to  run  away." 

"  And  that  is  all  because  Desiree  thinks  she  must  have 
heard  her  mamma  speak  of  the  Kelpie  waterfall,"  said  Jo* 
anna  ;  "  because  she  thought  she  knew  it  as  soon  as  she  saw 
it — that  is  all ! — did  you  ever  hear  the  like,  papa  ?" 

Melmar's  face  grew  redder,  as  wTas  its  wont  when  he  was 
at  all  disturbed.  He  laid  down  his  paper. 

"  She  thought  she  knew  the  Kelpie,  did  she  ? — hum !  and 
her  mother  is  a  Scotchwoman — for  that  matter,  so  is  yours. 
What  is  to  be  made  of  that,  eh,  Patricia  ?" 

"  I  never  denied  where  I  belonged  to,"  said  Patricia,  red 
dening  with  querulous  anger ;  "  and  I  did  not  speak  to  you, 
papa,  so  you  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  answer.  But  her 
mother  was  Scotch — and  I  do  not  believe  she  is  a  proper 
Frenchwoman  at  all.  I  never  did  think  so  ;  and  as  for  a 
governess,  Joanna  could  learn  as  much  from  mamma's 
maid." 

Joanna  burst  out  immediately  into  a  loud  defense,  and 
denunciation  of  her  sister.  Melmar  took  no  notice  what, 
ever  of  their  quarrel,  but  he  still  grew  redder  in  the  face, 
twisted  about  his  newspaper,  got  up  and  walked  to  the  win 
dow,  and  displayed  a  general  uneasiness.  He  was  perfectly 
indifferent  as  to  the  tone  and  bearing  of  his  daughters,  but 
he  was  not  indifferent  to  what  they  said  in  this  quarrel,  which 
was  all  about  Desiree.  Presently,  however,  both  the  voices 
ceased  with  some  abruptness.  Melmar  looked  round  with 
curiosity.  Desiree  herself  had  entered  the  room,  and  what 
his  presence  had  not  even  checked,  her  presence  put  an 


204  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

end  to.  Desiree  wore  a  brown  merino  frock,  like  Joanna, 
with  a  little  band  and  buckle  round  the  waist,  and  sleeves 
which  were  puffed  out  at  the  shoulders,  and  plain  at  the 
wrists,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time.  It  had  no 
ornament  whatever  except  a  narrow  binding  of  velvet  at 
the  neck  and  sleeves,  and  was  not  so  long  as  to  hide  the 
handsome  little  feet,  which  were  not  in  velvet  slippers,  but 
in  stout  little  shoes  of  patent  leather,  more  suitable  a  great 
deal  for  Melmar,  and  the  place  she  held  there.  The  said 
little  feet  came  in  lightly,  yet  not  noiselessly,  and  both  the 
sisters  turned  with  an  immediate  acknowledgment  of  the 
stranger's  entrance.  Patricia's  delicate  pink  cheeks  were 
flushed  with  anger,  and  Joanna  looked  eager  and  defiant, 
but  quarrels  were  so  very  common  between  them  that 
Desiree  took  no  notice  of  this  one.  She  came  to  a  table 
near  which  Melmar  was  standing,  and  opened  a  drawer  in 
it  to  get  Joanna's  needlework. 

"  You  promised  to  have — oh,  such  an  impossible  piece, 
done  to-day !"  said  Desiree,  "  and  look,  you  naughty  Jo 
anna  ! — look  here." 

She  shook  out  a  delicate  piece  of  embroidery  as  she 
spoke,  with  a  merry  laugh.  It  was  a  highly-instructive  bit 
of  work,  done  in  a  regular  succession  of  the  most  delicate 
perfection  and  the  utmost  bungling,  to  wit,  Desiree's  own 
performance  and  the  performance  of  her  pupil.  As  the  lit 
tle  governess  clapped  her  hands  over  it,  Joanna  drew  near 
and  put  her  arms  round  the  waist  of  her  young  teacher, 
overtopping  her  by  all  her  own  red  head  and  half  her  big 
shoulders. 

"  I'll  never  do  it  like  you,  Desiree,"  said  the  girl,  half  in 
real  affection,  half  with  the  benevolent  purpose  of  aggra 
vating  her  sister.  "  I'll  never  do  any  thing  so  well  as  you, 
if  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Aunt  Jean." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  will  need  no  governess,"  said  Desiree, 
"  and  if  you  did  it  as  well  as  I,  now,  you  should  not  want 
me,  Joanna.  I  shall  leave  it  for  you  there — and  now  it  is 
time  to  come  for  one  little  half  hour  to  the  music.  Will 
mademoiselle  do  us  the  honor  to  come  and  listen  ?  It  shall 
be  only  one  little  half  hour." 

"  No,  thank  you  !  I  don't  care  to  hear  girls  at  their  les 
sons — and  Joanna's  time  is  always  so  bad."  said  the  fretful 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  205 

Patricia.  "  Oh,  I  can't  help  having  an  ear  !  I  can  hear  only 
too  well,  thank  you,  where  I  am." 

Desiree  made  a  very  slight  smiling  curtsey  to  her  op 
ponent,  and  pressed  Joanna's  arm  lightly  with  her  fingers 
to  keep  down  the  retort  which  trembled  on  that  young 
lady's  lips.  Then  they  went  away  together  to  the  little 
supplementary  musical  lesson.  Melmar  had  never  turned 
round,  nor  taken  the  slightest  notice,  but  he  observed,  not 
withstanding,  not  only  all  that  was  done,  but  all  that  was 
looked  and  said,  and  it  struck  him,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  that  the  English  of  Desiree  was  perfectly  familiar  and 
harmonious  English,  and  that  she  never  either  paused  for  a 
word  nor  translated  the  idiom  of  one  tongue  into  the  speech 
of  another.  Uneasy  suspicions  began  to  play  about  his 
mind  :  he  could  scarcely  say  what  he  feared,  yet  he  feared 
something.  The  little  governess  was  French  undeniably 
and  emphatically — and  yet  she  was  not  French,  either,  yet 
bore  an  unexplainable  something  of  familiarity  and  home- 
likeness  which  had  won  for  her  the  heart  of  Aunt  Jean,  and 
had  startled  himself  unawares  from  her  first  introduction  to 
Melmar.  He  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
blank,  winterly  landscape,  the  leafless  trees  in  the  distance, 
the  damp  grass  and  evergreens  near  the  door,  as  the  cheer 
ful  notes  of  Joanna's  music  came  stealing  through  the 
cold  passages.  The  music  was  not  in  bad  time,  and  it  was 
in  good  taste,  for  Joanna  was  ambitious,  and  Desiree, 
though  not  an  extraordinary  musician  herself,  kept  her  pupil 
to  this  study  with  the  most  tenacious  perseverance.  As 
Melmar  listened,  vague  thoughts,  almost  of  fear,  stole  over 
him.  He  had  been  a  lawyer,  and  a  lawyer  of  a  low  class, 
smart  in  schemes  and  trickeries.  He  was  ready  to  suspect 
everybody  of  cunning  and  the  mean  cleverness  of  deceit. 
Perhaps  this  was  a  little  spy  whom  he  fostered  in  his  house. 
Perhaps  her  presence  in  the  Edinburgh  school  was  a  trick  to 
attract  Joanna,  and  her  presence  here  a  successful  plot  to 
undermine  and  find  out  himself.  His  face  grew  redder  still 
as  he  "  put  things  together ;"  and  by  the  time  the  music 
ceased,  Melmar  had  concocted  and  found  out  (it  is  so  easy 
to  find  out  what  one  has  concocted  one's  own  selfj)  a  very 
pretty  little  conspiracy.  He  had  found  it  out,  he  was  per 
suaded,  and  it  should  go  no  further — trust  him  for  that ! 

Accordingly,  when  his  daughter  and  her  governess  re- 


206  THE    LA1ED    OF    NOKLAW. 

turned,  Melmar  paid  them  a  compliment  upon  their  music, 
and  was  disposed  to  be  friendly,  as  it  appeared.  Finally, 
after  he  had  exhausted  such  subjects  of  chat  as  occurred  to 
him,  he  got  up,  looking  at  Desiree,  who  was  now  busy  with 
her  embroidery. 

"I  rather  think,  mademoiselle,  you  have  been  more  than 
three  months  here,"  said  Melmar,  "  and  I  have  been  incon 
siderate  and  ungallant  enough  to  forget  the  time.  I'll  speak 
with  you  about  that  in  my  study,  if  you'll  favor  me  by  com 
ing  there.  I  never  speak  of  business  but  in  my  own  room 
— eh,  Joan  ?  You  got  your  thrashings  there  when  you 
were  young  enough.  Where  does  mademoiselle  give  you 
them  now  ?" 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  papa,"  said  Joanna,  jerking  her  head 
aside  as  he  pinched  her  ear.  "  What  do  you  want  of  De 
siree  ?  if  it's  for  Patricia,  and  you're  going  to  teaze  her,  I'll 
not  let  her  go,  whatever  you  say." 

"And  it  as  not  quite  three  months,  yet,"  said  Desiree, 
looking  up  with  a  smile.  "  Monsieur  is  too  kind,  but  it  still 
wants  a  week  of  the  time." 

"Then,  lest  I  should  forget  again  when  the  week  was 
over,  we'll  settle  it  now,  mademoiselle,"  said  Melmar.  De 
siree  rose  immediately  to  follow  him.  They  went  away 
through  the  long  passage,  he  leading,  suspicious  and  stealthy, 
she  going  after  him,  with  the  little  feet  which  rang  frankly 
upon  the  stones.  Desiree  thought  the  study  miserable  when 
she  went  into  it.  She  longed  to  throw  open  the  window,  to 
clear  out  the  choked  fire — she  did  not  wonder  that  her  pu 
pil's  papa  had  a  heated  face,  even  before  dinner ;  the  won 
der  seemed  how  any  one  could  breathe  here. 

They  had  a  conference  of  some  duration,  which  gradually 
diverged  from  Desiree's  little  salary,  which  was  a  matter 
easily  settled.  Mr.  Huntley  took  an  interest  in  her  family. 
He  asked  a  great  many  questions,  which  the  girl  answered 
with  a  certain  frankness  and  a  certain  reserve," the  frankness 
being  her  own,  and  the  reserve  attributable  to  a  letter 
which  Desiree  kept  in  her  pocket,  and  beyond  the  instruc 
tions  of  which  nothing  could  have  tempted  her  to  pass.  Mr. 
Huntley  learned  a  great  deal  during  that  interview,  though 
not  exactly  what  he  expected  and  intended  to  learn.  The 
afternoon  was  darkening,  and  as  he  sat  in  the  dubious  light, 
with  the  window  and  the  yew-tree  on  the  other  side  of  him, 


THE    LAIKD     OF   NOEL  AW.  207 

he  became  more  and  more  like  the  big,  brindled,  watchful 
cat,  which  he  had  so  great  a  tendency  to  resemble.  Then 
he  dismissed  "  mademoiselle"  with  a  kindly  caution.  He 
thought  she  had  better  not  mention — not  even  to  any  one 
in  the  house,  that  her  mother  was  a  Scotchwoman — as  she 
was  French  herself,  he  thought  the  less  said  about  that  the 
better — he  would  not  even  speak  of  it  much  to  Joanna,  he 
thought,  if  she  would  take  his  advice — it  might  injure  her 
prospects  in  life — and  with  this  fatherly  advice  he  sent  De- 
sir  e e  away. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  looked  out  stealthily  for  some  one 
else,  though  he  had  taken  previous  precautions  to  make  sure 
that  no  one  could  listen.  It  was  Patricia  for  whom  her 
father  looked,  poor  little  delicate  Patricia,  who  would  steal 
about  those  stone-cold  passages,  and  linger  in  all  manner  of 
draughts  at  half-closed  doors,  to  gain  a  little  clandestine  in 
formation.  When  Melmar  had  watched  a  few  minutes,  he 
discovered  her  stealing  out  of  a  little  store-room  close  by, 
and  pounced  upon  the  poor  little  stealthy,  chilly  figure.  He 
did  not  care  that  the  grasp  of  his  fingers  hurt  her  delicate 
shoulders,  and  that  her  teeth  chattered  with  cold ;  he  drew 
her  roughly  into  the  dusk  of  the  study,  where  the  pale  win 
dow  and  the  black  yew  were  by  no  means  counterbalanced 
by  any  light  from  the  fire.  Once  here,  Patricia  began  to 
vindicate  herself,  and  upbraid  papa's  cruelty.  Her  father 
silenced  her  with  a  threatening  gesture. 

"  At  it  again !"  said  Melmar ;  "  what  the  deevil  business 
have  you  with  my  affairs  ?  let  me  but  catch  you  prying 
when  there  is  any  thing  to  learn,  and  for  all  your  airs,  I'll 
punish  you  !  you  little  cankered  elf!  hold  your  tongue,  and 
hear  what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  If  I  hear  another  word 
against  that  governess,  French  or  no  French — or  if  you  try 
your  hand  at  aggravating  her,  as  I  know  you  have  done,  I'll 
turn  you  out  of  this  house  !" 

For  once  in  her  life  Patricia  was  speechless  ;  she  made  no 
answer,  but  stood  shivering  in  his  grasp,  with  a  hundred  ter 
rified  malicious  fancies  in  her  mind,  not  one  of  which  would 
come  to  utterance.  Melmar  proceeded : — 

"  If  anybody  asks  you  who  she  is,  or  what  she  is,  you  can 
tell  them  ./know — which  is  more  than  you  know,  or  she 
either — and  if  you  let  any  mortal  suppose  she's  slighted  at 
Melmar,  or  give  her  ground  to  take  offense,  or  are  the 


208  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

means  of  making  her  wish  to  leave  this  place — if  it  should 
be  midnight,  or  the  depths  of  winter,  I'll  turn  you  out  of 
doors  that  moment !  Do  you  hear  ?" 

Patricia  did  hear,  with  sullen  terror  and  wicked  passion, 
but  she  did  not  answer ;  and  when  she  was  released,  fled  to 
her  own  room,  ready,  out  of  the  mere  impotence  of  her  re 
vengeful  ill-humor  to  harm  herself,  since  she  could  not  harm 
Desiree,  and  with  all  kinds  of  vile  suspicions  in  her  mind — 
suspicions  further  from  the  reality  than  Melmar's  had  been, 
and  still  more  miserable.  When  she  came  to  herself  a  little, 
she  cried  and  made  her  eyes  red,  and  got  a  headache,  and 
the  supernumerary  maid  was  dispatched  up  stairs  to  nurse 
her,  and  be  tormented  for  the  evening.  Suffering  is  very 
often  vicarious  in  this  world,  and  poor  Jenny  Shaw  bore  the 
brunt  which  Desiree  was  not  permitted  to  bear.  . 


CHAPTER   XLII  . 

"  I  SHOULD  like  to  live  here,"  said  Desiree,  looking  out  of 
the  window  of  the  manse  parlor,  with  a  little  sigh. 

Katie  Logan  looked  up  at  her  with  some  little  doubt.  She 
had  come  by  herself  to  the  manse,  in  advance  of  Joanna, 
who  had  been  detained  to  accompany  her  sister.  The  two 
girls  had  been  invited  some  time  before  to  "  take  tea"  at  the 
manse — and  Desiree  had  been  very  curious  and  interested 
about  her  first  visit  to  her  white  house  on  the  hill.  Now 
that  she  had  accomplished  it,  however,  it  subdued  her  spirit 
a  little,  and  gave  the  little  Frenchwoman  for  once  a  consid 
erable  inclination  to  get  "  low,"  and  cry.  The  house  and  the 
room  were  very  unlike  any  house  she  had  ever  known — yet 
they  were  so  homelike  that  Desiree's  thoughts  grew  tender. 
And  Katie  Logan  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  Desiree's  im 
pulsive  little  heart  had  clung  to  Katie  every  time  she  saw 
her.  She  was  so  sweet  and  neat — so  modest  and  natural — 
so  unlike  Patricia  and  Joanna,  and  all  the  womankind  of 
that  sloven  house  of  Melmar.  The  girl,  who  had  a  mother 
and  an  elder  sister,  and  was  far  from  home,  yearned  to  Katie 
1 — but  the  little  mistress  of  the  manse  looked  with  douht 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  209 

upon  the  French  governess — principally,  to  tell  the  truth, 
because  she  was  French,  and  Katie  Logan,  with  all  her  good 
sense,  was  only  a  country  girl,  and  had  but  a  very,  very 
small  experience  of  any  world  beyond  Kirkbride. 

"  Mamma  came  from  this  country,"  said  Desiree,  again, 
softly.  She  had  a  letter  in  her  pocket — rather  a  sentimen 
tal  letter — from  mamma,  which  perhaps  a  wiser  person  might 
have  smiled  at  a  little — but  it  made  Desiree's  heart  expand 
toward  the  places  which  mamma  too  had  seen  in  her  youth, 
and  remembered  still. 

"  Indeed  !  then  you  are  a  little  bit  Scotch,  you  are  not  all 
French,"  said  Katie,  brightening  a  little  ;  "  is  it  very  long 
since  your  mamma  went  away  ? — is  she  in  France  now  ?  Is 
she  likely  to  come  back  again  ?" 

Desiree  shook  her  head. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  rich,  and  buy  this  house,  and  bring 
her  here — I  love  this  house,"  cried  the  girl. 

A  little  cloud  came  upon  Katie's  face.  She  was  jealous 
of  any  inference  that  some  time  or  other  the  manse  might 
change  hands.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  that — prin 
cipally  because  Katie  had  begun  to  find  out  with  painful 
anxiety  and  fear,  that  her  father  was  growing  old,  that  he 
felt  the  opening  chill  of  winter  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
used  to  do — and  that  the  old  people  in  the  village  shook 
their  heads,  and  said  to  themselves  that  the  minister  was 
"  failing"  every  time  he  passed  their  doors. 

"  This  house  can  never  be  sold,"  said  Katie,  briefly — even 
so  briefly  as  though  the  words  were  rather  hard  to  say. 

"It  is  not  like  Melmar,"  said  Desiree.  "I  want  the  air 
and  the  sun  to  come  into  that  great  house — it  can  not  breathe 
— and  how  the  people  breathe  in  it  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  they  are  very  kind  people,1'  said  Katie,  quickly. 

Desiree  lifted  her  black  eyes  and  looked  full  at  her— but 
Katie  was  working  and  did  not  meet  the  look. 

"  Joanna  is  fond  of  you,"  said  Desiree,  "  and  I  like  her — 
and  I  am  fond  of  the  old  lady  whom  they  call  Aunt 
Jean." 

This  distinct  summary  of  the  amount  of  her  affection  for 
the  household  amused  Katie,  who  was  half  afraid  of  a  gov 
erness-complaint  against  her  employers. 

"Do  you  like  to  be  so  far  from  home  ?"  she  said. 

"  Like !"     Desiree  became  suddenly  vehement.   "  I  should 


210  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

like  to  live  with  mamma — but,"  cried  the  girl,  "  how  could 
you  ask  me  ? — do  not  you  know  ?" 

"  I  have  no  mother,"  said  Katie,  very  quietly ;  "  boys  are 
always  eager  to  leave  home — girls  might  sometimes  wish  it 
too.  Do  you  know  Cosmo  Livingstone,  whom  you  saw  in 
Edinburgh,  has  gone  abroad  for  no  reason  at  all  that  I  know 
— and  his  brothers  have  both  gone  to  work,  and  make  their 
fortunes  if  they  can— and  my  little  brothers  speak  already 
of  what  they  are  going  to  do  when  they  grow  men — they 
will  all  go  away." 

"  In  this  country,  people  always  tafe  of  making  fortunes. 
I  should  like  to  make  a  fortune  too,"  said  Desiree,  "  but  I  do 
not  know  what  to  do." 

"  Girls  never  make  fortunes,"  said  Katie,  with  a  smile. 

"  Why  ?"  cried  the  little  governess,  "  but  I  wish  it — yes, 
very  much — though  I  do  not  know  how  to  do  it ;  here  I  have 
just  twenty  pounds  a  year.  What  should  you  do  if  you  had 
no  papa,  and  had  to  work  for  yourself." 

Katie  rose  from  her  chair  in  trouble  and  excitement. 

"  Don't  speak  so — you  frighten  me  !"  she  cried,  with  an 
involuntary  pang.  "  I  have  all  the  children.  You  do  not 
understand  it — you  must  not  speak  of  that." 

"  Of  what  ?"  asked  Desiree,  with  a  little  astonishment. 
But  she  changed  the  subject  with  ready  tact  when  she  saw 
the  painful  color  on  Katie's  face.  "  I  should  like  mamma  to 
see  you,"  she  said  in  a  vein  of  perfectly  natural  and  sincere 
flattery.  "  When  I  tell  her  what  kind  of  people  I  live 
among,  I  do  not  speak  of  mademoiselle  at  Melmar,  or  even 
of  Joanna — I  tell  her  of  you,  and  then  she  is  happy — 
she  thinks  poor  little  Desiree  is  very  well  where  she  is  with 
such  as  these." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  good  to  me,"  said  Katie,  with  a 
half  conscious  laugh — "  you  don't  know  me  well  enough  yet 
— is  it  Patricia  whom  you  call  mademoiselle  ?" 

Desiree  shrugged  her  little  shoulders  slightly ;  she  gave 
no  other  answer,  but  once  more  looked  out  from  the  window 
down  the  pretty  brae  of  Tyne,  where  all  the  cottages  were  so 
much  the  clearer  from  the  winterly  brown  aspect  of  the  trees, 
stripped  of  their  foliage.  It  was  not  like  any  other  scene 
familiar  to  Desiree,  still  it  did  seem  familiar  to  her — she  could 
not  tell  how — as  if  she  had  known  it  all  her  life. 

"  Does  Cosmo  Livingstone,  whom  you  spoke  of,  live  near  ?" 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  211 

asked  Desiree,  " and  will  you  tell  me  of  his  mother?  Is 
she  by  herself,  now  that  all  her  boys  are  gone  ? — is  she  a 
lady  ?  Are  they  great  people  or  are  they  poor  ?  Joanna 
speaks  of  a  great  old  castle,  and  I  think  I  saw  it  from  the 
road.  They  must  be  great  people  if  they  lived  there." 

"  They  are  not  great  people  now,"  said  Katie,  the  color 
warming  in  her  cheek — "  yet  the  castle  belonged  to  them 
once,  and  they  were  different.  But  they  are  good  people 
still." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  about  them,"  said  Desiree,  sudden 
ly  coming  up  to  Katie,  and  sitting  down  on  a  stool  by  her 
feet.  Katie  Logan  was  slightly  flattered,  in  spite  of  herself. 
She  thought  it  very  foolish,  but  she  could  not  help  it.  Once 
more  a  lively  crimson  kindled  in  her  cheek.  She  bent  over 
her  work  with  great  earnestness,  and  never  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  questioning  face  of  the  girl. 

"  I  could  not  describe  the  Mistress  if  I  were  to  try  all 
day,"  said  Katie  at  last,  in  a  little  burst,  after  having  delib 
erated.  Desiree  looked  up  at  her  very  steadily,  with  grave 
curiosity. 

"And  that  is  what  I  want  most,"  said  the  little  French 
woman.  "  What !  can  you  not  tell  if  she  has  black  eyes  or 
blue  ones,  light  hair  or  dark  hair  ? — was  she  pretty  before 
she  grew  old — and  does  she  love  her  boys — and  did  her  hus 
band  love  her  ?  I  want  to  know  all  that." 

Desiree  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  received  all 
these  questions  from  another  person,  and  who  asked  them 
with  a  point-blank  quietness  and  gravity,  for  the  satisfaction 
of  some  other  curiosity  than  her  own  ;  but  the  investigation 
was  half  amusing,  half  irritating  to  Katie.  She  shook  her 
head  slightly,  with  a  gesture  expressing  much  the  same  sen 
timent  as  the  movement  of  her  hand,  which  drew  away  the 
skirts  on  which  Desiree  almost  leaned.  Her  doubt  changed 
into  a  more  positive  feeling.  Katie  rather  feared  Desiree 
was  about  to  fulfill  all  her  unfavorable  anticipations  as  to  the 
quality  of  French  governesses. 

"  Don't  go  away,"  said  Desiree,  laying  her  little  white 
hand  upon  the  dress  which  Katie  withdrew  from  her  touch. 
"  I  like  to  sit  by  you — I  like  to  be  near  you — and  I  want  to 
hear ;  not  for  me.  Tell  me  only  what  you  please,  but  let 
me  sit  here  till  Joanna  comes." 

There  was  a  little  pause.     Katie  was  moved  slightly,  but 


212  THE    LAIKD    OF    NORLAW. 

did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  Desiree,  too,  sat  silent, 
whether  waiting  for  her  answer  or  thinking,  Katie  could  not 
tell.  At  last  she  spoke  again  with  emotion,  grasping  Katie's 
dress. 

"  I  like  Joanna,"  said  Desiree,  with  tears  upon  her  eye 
lashes — "  but  I  am  older  than  she  is — a  great  deal  older — 
and  no  one  else  cares  for  me.  You  do  not  care  for  me — it 
is  not  likely ;  but  let  me  sit  here  and  forget  all  that  house 
and  every  thing  till  Joanna  comes.  Ah,  let  me  !  I  am  far 
away  from  home — I  am  a  little  beggar  girl,  begging  at  your 
window — not  for  crumbs,  or  for  sous,  but  for  love.  I  am  so 
lonely.  I  do  not  think  of  it  always — but  I  have  thought 
so  long  and  so  often  of  coming  here." 

"  You  must  come  oftener  then,"  said  Katie,  who,  un 
used  to  any  demonstration,  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
say. 

"I  can  not  come  often,"  said  Desiree,  softly,  "but  let 
me  sit  by  you  and  forget  all  the  others — only  for  a  very, 
very  little  time — only  till  Joanna  comes.  Ah,  she  is 
here !" 

•  And  the  little  Frenchwoman  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
ran  to  the  window  to  look  out,  and  came  back  with  a  swift 

fliding  motion  to  take  Katie's  hand  out  of  her  work  and 
iss  it.  Katie  was  surprised,  startled,  moved.  She  did  not 
half  understand  it,  and  she  blushed,  though  the  lips  which 
touched  her  hand  were  only  those  of  a  girl;  but  almost  be 
fore  she  could  speak,  Desiree  had  sprung  up  again,  ana 
stood  before  her  with  a  smile,  winking  her  pretty  long  eye 
lashes  to  clear  them  of  those  wayward  April  tears.  She 
was  very  pretty,  very  young,  with  her  little  foreign  graces. 
Katie  did  not  understand  the  rapid  little  girl,  who  darted 
from  one  thought  to  another,  so  quickly,  yet  with  such  evi 
dent  truthfulness — but  her  heart  was  touched  and  surprised. 
Joanna  came  in  immediately,  to  put  an  end  to  any  further 
confidences.  Joanna,  loudly  indignant  at  Patricia's  selfish 
ness,  and  making  most  audible  and  uncompromising  com 
parisons  between  Melmar  and  the  manse,  which  Desiree 
skillfully  diverted,  soothed,  and  gradually  reduced  to  silence, 
to  Katie's  much  amazement.  On  the  whole,  it  was  a  very 
pleasant  little  tea-party  to  everybody  concerned ;  but  Katie 
Logan,  when  she  stood  at  the  door  in  the  clear  frosty  moon 
light,  looking  after  her  young  guests,  driving  away  in  the 


THE    LAIED    OF     NOKLAW.  213 

double  gig  which  had  been  sent  for  them,  still  doubted  and 
wondered  about  Desiree,  though  with  a  kindly  instead  of  an 
unfavorable  sentiment.  What  could  the  capricious  little 
foreigner  mean,  for  instance,  by  such  close  questions  about 
Norlaw  ? 


CHAPTER     XLIII. 

AT  Norlaw  every  thing  was  very  quiet,  very  still,  in  this 
early  winter.  The  "  beasts"  were  thriving,  the  dairy  was 
prosperous,  the  Mistress's  surplus  fund — spite  of  the  fifty 
pounds  which  had  been  given  out  of  it  to  Cosmo — grew  at 
the  bank.  Willie  Noble,  the  factotum,  lived  in  his  cosy 
cottage  at  a  little  distance,  and  throve — but  no  one  knew 
very  well  how  the  Mistress  and  Marget  lived  by  themselves 
in  that  deserted  house.  No  one  could  have  told  any  exter 
nal  difference  in  the  house,  save  for  its  quietness.  It  was 
cheerful  to  look  upon  in  the  ruddy  winter  sunshine,  when 
the  glimmer  of  the  fire  shone  in  the  windows  of  the  dining- 
parlor,  and  through  the  open  door  of  Marget's  kitchen ;  and 
not  even  the  close  pressure  of  the  widow's  cap  could  bring 
decay  or  melancholy  to  the  living  looks  of  the  Mistress,  who 
still  was  not  old,  and  had  much  to  do  yet  in  the  world  where 
her  three  boys  were  wandering.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
deny  that  both  Mistress  and  servant  had  a  little  dread  of 
the  long  evenings.  They  preferred  getting  up  hours  before 
daylight,  when,  though  it  was  dark,  it  was  morning,  and  the 
labors  of  the  day  could  be  begun — they  took  no  pleasure  in 
the  night. 

It  was  a  habitual  custom  with  the  minister,  and  had  been 
for  years,  to  "  take  tea"  occasionally,  now  and  then,  without 
previous  invitation,  at  ISTorlaw.  When  Dr.  Logan  was  new 
in  his  pastorate,  he  thought  this  device  of  dropping  in  to 
take  tea  the  most  admirable  plan  ever  invented  for  "  becom 
ing  acquainted  with  his  people,"  and  winning  their  affec 
tions  ;  and  what  was  commenced  as  a  famous  piece  of  wis 
dom,  had  fallen  years  ago  into  natural  use  and  wont,  a  great 
improvemjent  upon  policy.  From  the  same  astute  reason 
ing,  it  had  been  the  fancy  of  the  excellent  minister,  whose 


214  THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW. 

schemes  were  all  very  transparent,  and,  indeed,  unconceal- 
able,  to  take  Katie  with  him  in  these  domestic  visitations. 
"  It  pleased  the  people,"  Dr.  Logan  thought,  and  increased 
the  influence  of  the  ecclesiastical  establishment.  The  good 
man  was  rather  complacent  about  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  conquered  the  affections  of  his  parish.  It  was  done  by 
the  most  elaborate  statesmanship,  if  you  believed  Dr.  Logan, 
and  he  told  the  young  pastors,  with  great  satisfaction,  the 
history  of  his  simple  devices,  little  witting  that  his  devices 
were  as  harmless  as  they  were  transparent,  and  that  it  was 
himself,  and  not  his  wisdom,  which  took  the  hearts  of  his  peo 
ple.  But  in  the  meantime,  those  plans  of  his  had  come  to  be 
the  course  of  nature,  and  so  it  was  that  Katie  Logan  found 
herself  seated  with  her  work  in  the  Noiiaw  dining-parlor  at 
sunset  of  a  wintry  afternoon,  which  was  not  exactly  the  day 
that  either  she  or  the  Mistress  would  have  chosen  for  her 
visit  there. 

For  that  day  the  Mistress  had  heard  from  her  eldest  son. 
Huntley  had  reached  Australia — had  made  his  beginning  of 
life^had  written  a  long,  full-detailed  letter  to  his  mother, 
rich  in  such  particulars  as  mothers  love  to  know ;  and  on 
that  very  afternoon  Katie  Logan  came  with  her  father  to 
Norlaw.  Now  in  her  heart  the  Mistress  liked  Katie  as  well, 
perhaps  better,  than  she  liked  any  other  stranger  out  of  the 
narrow  magic  circle  of  her  own  blood  and  family — but  the 
Mistress  was  warm  of  temper  and  a  little  unreasonable. 
She  could  not  admit  the  slightest  right  on  Katie's  part,  or 
on  the  part  of  any  "  fremd  person,"  to  share  in  the  com 
munication  of  her  son.  She  resented  the  visit  which  inter 
rupted  her  in  the  midst  of  her  happiness  and  excitement 
with  a  suggestion  of  some  one  else  who  might  claim  a  share 
in  Huntley.  She  knew  they  were  not  lovers,  she  knew  that 
not  the  shadow  of  an  engagement  bound  these  two,  she  be 
lieved  that  they  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  each  other 
which  all  the  world  might  not  have  heard — yet,  notwith 
standing  all  these  certainties,  the  Mistress  was  clear-sighted, 
and  had  the  prevision  of  love  in  her  eyes,  and  with  the  wild 
est  unreasonableness  she  resented  the  coming  of  Katie,  of 
all  other  days  in  the  year,  upon  that  day. 

"She  needna  have  been  in  such  an  awfu'  hurry;  she 
might  have  waited  a  while,  if  it  had  only  been  for  the 
thought  of  what  folk  might  say,"  muttered  the  Mistress  to 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW.  215 

herself,  very  well  knowing  all  the  time,  though  she  would 
not  acknowledge  it  to  herself,  that  Katie  Logan  had  no 
means  whatever  of  knowing  what  precious  missive  had 
come  in  the  Kirkbride  letter-bag  that  day. 

And  when  the  Mistress  intimated  the  fact  with  a  little 
heat  and  excitement,  Katie  blushed  and  felt  uncomfortable. 
She  was  conscious,  too ;  she  did  not  like  to  ask  a  natural 
question  about  Huntley.  She  sat  embarrassed  at  the 
homely  tea-table,  looking  at  the  cream  scones  which  Marget 
had  made  in  honor  of  the  minister,  while  Dr.  Logan  and 
the  Mistress  kept  up  the  conversation  between  them — and 
when  her  father  rose  after  tea  to  go  out,  as  was  his  custom, 
to  call  at  the  nearest  cottages,  Katie  would  fain  have  gone 
too,  had  that  not  been  too  great  an  invasion  of  established 
rule  and  custom,  to  pass  without  immediate  notice.  She 
sat  still  accordingly  by  the  table  with  her  work,  the  Mis 
tress  sitting  opposite  with  her  work  also,  and  her  mind 
intent  upon  Huntley's  letter.  The  room  was  very  still  and 
dim,  with  its  long  background  of  shade,  sometimes  invaded 
by  a  red  glimmer  of  fire,  but  scarcely  influenced  by  the 
steady  light  of  the  two  candles,  illuminating  those  two 
faces  by  the  table ;  and  the  Mistress  and  her  visitor  sat  in 
silence  without  any  sound  but  the  motion  of  their  hands, 
and  the  little  rustle  of  their  elbows  as  they  worked.  This 
silence  became  very  embarrassing  after  a  few  minutes,  and 
Katie  broke  it  at  last  by  an  inquiry  after  Cosmo — where 
was  he  when  his  mother  heard  last  ? 

"  The  laddie  is  a  complete  wanderer,"  said  the  Mistress, 
not  without  a  little  complacence.  "  I  could  not  undertake 
to  mind,  for  my  part,  all  the  places  he's  been  in — though 
they're  a'  names  you  see  in  books — he's  been  in  Eetaly,  and 
he's  been  in  Germany,  and  now  he's  back  again  in  France ; 
but  I  canna  say  he  forgets  hame  either,"  she  added,  with 
a  tender  pride,  "only  the  like  of  him  must  improve  his 
mind;  and  foreign  travel,  folk  say,  is  good  for  that — 
though  I  canna  say  I  ever  had  much  to  do  with  foreigners, 
or  likit  them  mysel'." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  from  this  country  marry 
ing  a  Frenchman,  Mrs.  Livingstone  ?"  asked  Katie. 

"  Marrying  a  Frenchman  ?  I'll  warrant  have  I — it's  no' 
such  a  great  wonder,  but  the  like  of  me  might  hear  tell  of 
it  in  a  lifetime,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  little  offense, 


216  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW.  ? 

"  but  marriage  is  no'  aye  running  in  everybody's  head,  Miss 
Katie,  and  there's  little  fear  of  my  Cosmo  bringing  me 
hame  a  French  wife." 

"  No,  I  did  not  think  of  that,"  said  Katie,  with  a  smile, 
"  I  was  thinking  of  the  little  French  governess  at  Melrnar, 
whose  mother,  they  say,  came  from  this  quarter,  or  near  it. 
She  is  an  odd  little  girl  and  yet  I  like  her — Cosmo  saw  her 
in  Edinburgh,  and  she  was  very  anxious,  when  she  came  to 
the  manse,  to  hear  about  Norlaw.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  have  known  who  her  mother  was." 

The  Mistress  was  slightly  startled — she  looked  up  at 
Katie  quickly,  with  a  sparkle  of  impatience  in  her  eye,  and 
a  rising  color. 

"  Me !"  said  the  Mistress.  "  How  should  I  ken  ?  There 
might  have  been  a  hundred  young  women  in  the  country 
side  married  upon  Frenchmen  for  any  thing  I  could  tell. 
'  This  quarter'  is  a  wide  word.  I  ken  nae  mair  about  Mel- 
rose  and  what  happens  there,  wha's  married  or  wha  dies, 
than  if  it  was  a  thousand  miles  away.  And  many  a  person 
has  heard  tell  of  Norlaw  that  I  ken  naething  about,  and 
that  never  heard  tell  of  me." 

Katie  paused  to  consider  after  this.  She  knew  and 
understood  so  much  of  the  Mistress's  character  that  she 
neither  took  offense  nor  wished  to  excite  it.  This  had  not 
been  a  quite  successful  essay  at  conversation,  and  Katie 
took  a  little  time  to  think  before  she  began  again. 

But  while  Katie's  thoughts  left  this  subject,  those  of  the 
Mistress  held  to  it.  Silence  fell  upon  them  again,  disturbed 
only  by  the  rustle  of  their  sleeves  as  they  wrorked,  and  the 
crackle  of  the  fire,  which  burned  brightly,  when  suddenly 
the  Mistress  asked  : — 

"  What  like  is  she  ?"  with  an  abruptness  which  took  away 
Katie's  breath. 

"  She  ?" — it  required  an  effort  to  remember  that  this  was 
Desiree  of  whom  they  had  been  speaking — "  the  little  girl 
at  Melmar  ?"  asked  Katie.  "  She  is  little  and  bright,  and 
pretty,  with  very  dark  eyes  and  dark  hair,  a  quick  little 
creature,  like  a  bird  or  a  fairy.  I  confess  I  was  half  afraid 
of  her,  because  she  was  French,"  admitted  the  little  mistress 
of  the  manse  with  a  blush  and  a  laugh,  "  but  she  is  a  very 
sweet,  winning  little  girl,  with  pretty  red  lips,  and  white 
teeth,  and  black  eyes — very  little — less  than  me." 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW.  217 

The  Mistress  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  relieved. 

"  I  do  not  know  any  thing  about  her,"  she  said  slowly ; 
and  it  seemed  quite  a  comfort  to  the  Mistress  to  be  able  to 
say  so,  distinctly  and  impartially.  "And  so  she's  at  Melmar 
— a  governess — what  is  that  for,  Katie  ?  The  oldest  is 
woman  grown,  and  the  youngest  is  more  like  a  laddie  than 
a  lassie.  What  are  they  wanting  with  a  governess?  I 
canna  say  I  ken  much  of  the  present  family  mysel',  though 
my  Huntley,  if  he  had  but  sought  his  ain,  as  he  might  have 
done — but  you'll  hear  a'  that  through  your  cousin,  without 
me." 

"  No,"  said  Katie. 

"  Ah,  Katie  Logan !  you  speak  softly  and  fairly,  and 
you're  a  good  lassie,  and  a  comfort  to  the  house  you  belong 
to,"  cried  the  Mistress.  "  I  ken  a'  that,  and  I  never  denied 
it  a'  your  days !  But  my  Huntley,  do  you  ken  what  that 
laddie  did  before  he  went  away?  He  had  a  grand  laird- 
ship  within  his  hand  if  he  would  gang  to  the  law  and  fight 
it  out,  as  the  very  writer,  your  ain  cousin,  advised  him  to 
do.  But  my  son  said,  'No  ;  I'll  leave  my  mother  her  house 
and  her  comfort,  though  they're  a'  mine,'  said  my  Huntley. 
'  I'll  gang  and  make  the  siller  first  to  fight  the  battle  with.' 
And  yonder  he  is,  away  at  the  end  of  the  world,  amang  his 
beasts  and  his  toils.  He  wouldna  listen  to  me.  I  would 
have  lived  in  a  cothouse  or  one  room,  or  worked  for  my 
bread,  rather  than  stand  in  the  way  of  my  son's  fortune ; 
but  Huntley 's  a  man  grown,  and  maun  have  his  way ;  and 
the  proud  callant  had  that  in  his  heart  that  he  would  make 
his  mother  as  safe  as  a  queen  in  her  ain  house  before  he 
would  think  of  either  fortune  or  comfort  for  himsel'." 

The  Mistress's  voice  was  broken  with  her  mother-grief, 
and  pride,  and  triumph.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  she 
had  opened  her  heart  so  far — and  it  was  to  Katie,  whose 
visit  she  had  resented,  and  whose  secret  hold  on  Huntley 's 
heart  was  no  particular  delight  to  his  mother.  But  even  in 
the  midst  of  the  angry  impatience  with  which  the  Mistress 
refused  to  admit  a  share  in  her  son's  affections,  she  could 
not  resist  the  charm  of  sympathy,  the  grateful  fascination 
of  having  some  one  beside  her  to  whom  every  thing  con 
cerning  Huntley  was  almost  as  interesting  as  to  herself. 
Huntley's  uncommunicated  letter  was  very  near  running 
over  out  of  her  full  heart,  and  that  half-apologetic,  half- 
ID 


218  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

defiant  burst  of  feeling  was  the  first  opening  of  the  tide. 
Katie's  eyes  were  wet — she  could  not  help  it — and  they 
were  shining  and  glowing  behind  their  tears,  abashed, 
proud,  joyous,  tender,  saying  what  lips  can  not  say — she 
glanced  up,  with  all  her  heart  in  them,  at  the  Mistress,  and 
said  something  which  broke  down  in  a  half  sob,  half  laugh, 
half  sigh,  and  was  wholly  and  entirely  inarticulate,  though 
not  so  unintelligible  as  one  might  have  supposed.  It  was  a 
great  deal  better  than  words,  so  far  as  the  Mistress  was 
concerned — it  expressed  what  was  inexpressible — the  sweet, 
generous  tumult  in  the  girl's  heart — too  shy  even  to  name 
Huntley's  name,  too  delicate  to  approve,  yet  proud  and 
touched  to  its  depths  with  an  emotion  beyond  telling.  The 
two  women  did  not  rush  into  each  other's  arms  after  this 
spontaneous  burst  of  mutual  confidence.  On  the  contrary, 
they  sat  each  at  her  work — the  Mistress  hurriedly  wiping 
off  her  tears,  and  Katie  trying  to  keep  her's  from  falling,  if 
that  were  possible,  and  keeping  her  eyes  upon  the  little 
glancing  needle,  which  flashed  in  all  manner  of  colors 
through  the  sweet  moisture  which  filled  them.  Ah !  that 
dim,  silent  dining-parlor,  which  now  there  was  neither 
father  nor  children  to  fill  and  bless ! — perhaps  by  the  soli 
tary  fireside,  where  she  had  sat  for  so  many  hours  of  silent 
night,  alone  commanding  her  heart,  a  new,  tender,  sooth 
ing,  unlocked  for  relationship  suddenly  surprised  the 
thoughts  of  the  Mistress.  She  had  not  desired  it,  she  had 
not  sought  it,  yet  all  at  once,  almost  against  her  will,  a 
freshness  came  to  her  heart  like  the  freshness  after  showers. 
Something  had  happened  to  Huntley's  mother — she  had  an 
additional  comfort  in  the  world  after  to-night. 

But  when  Dr.  Logan  returned,  after  seeing  Willie  Noble, 
the  good  minister,  with  pleasant  consciousness  of  having 
done  his  duty,  was  not  disturbed  by  any  revelation  on  the 
part  of  the  Mistress,  or  confession  from  his  daughter.  He 
heard  a  great  many  extracts  read  from  Huntiey's  letter, 
feeling  it  perfectly  natural  and  proper  that  he  should  hear 
them,  and  expressing  his  interest  with  great  friendliness 
and  good  pleasure ;  and  then  Marget  was  called  in,  and  the 
minister  conducted  family  worship,  and  prayed  with  fervor 
i'>r  the  widow's  absent  sons,  like  a  patriarch.  "The  Angel 
which  redeemed  me  from  all  evil  bless  the  lads,"  said  the 
minister  in  his  prayer ;  and  then  he  craved  a  special  blessing 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  219 

on  the  first-born,  that  he  might  return  with  joy,  and  see  the 
'face  of  his  mother,  and  comfort  her  declining  years.  Then 
the  excellent  pastor  rose  from  his  knees  placidly,  and  shook 
the  Mistress's  hand,  and  wended  his  quiet  way  down  Tyne 
through  the  frosty  moonlight,  with  his  daughter  on  his  arm. 
He  thought  the  Mistress  was  pleased  to  see  them,  and  that 
Katie  had  been  a  comfort  to  her  to-night.  He  thought  it 
was  a  very  fine  night,  and  a  beautiful  moon,  and  there  were 
Orion,  Katie,  and  the  Plow ;  and  so  Dr.  Logan  went  peace 
fully  home,  and  thought  he  had  spent  a  very  profitable  night. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

IT  was  frost,  and  Tyne  was  "  bearing"  at  Kirkbride,  where 
the  village  held  a  carnival  of  sliding  and  skating,  and  where 
even  the  national  winter  sport,  the  yearly  curling  matches, 
began  to  be  talked  of.  There  was,  however,  no  one  at 
Melrnar  to  tempt  Tyne  to  "  bear,"  even  had  it  been  easy 
to  reach  his  glassy  surface  through  the  slippery  whitened 
trees,  every  twig  of  which  was  white  and  stiff  with  con 
gealed  dew.  The  Kelpie  fell  scantily,  with  a  drowsy  tinkle, 
over  its  little  ravine,  reduced  to  the  slenderest  thread,  while 
all  the  branches  near  it  were  hung  with  mocking  icicles. 
The  sun  was  high  in  the  blue,  frosty  midday  skies,  but  had 
only  power  enough  to  clear  here  and  there  an  exposed 
branch,  and  to  moisten  the  path  where  some  little  burn 
crept  half  frozen  under  a  crust  of  ice.  It  was  a  clear,  brac 
ing,  invigorating  day,  and  Joanna  and  Desiree,  spite  of  the  \ 
frost,  were  on  Tyne-side  among  the  frozen  woods. 

When  standing  close  together,  investigating  a  bit  of  moss, 
both  simultaneously  heard  a  crackling  footstep  among  the 
underwood,  and  turning  round  at  the  same  moment,  saw 
some  one  approaching  from  the  house.  He  was  one  of  her 
own  countrymen,  Desiree  thought,  with  a  little  flutter  at  her 
heart.  He  wore  a  large  blue  cloak,  with  an  immense  fur 
collar,  a  very  French  hat,  a  moustache,  and  long  black  hair ; 
Desiree  gazed  at  him  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
white  little  French  hands  clasped  together.  No  doubt  he 

Vv      >*  . 


220  THE     LAIRD     OF    NOBLAW. 

brought  some  message  from  mamma.  But  Desiree's  hopes 
were  brought  to  an  abrupt  conclusion  when  Joanna  sprang 
forward,'  exclaiming : 

"  Oh,  Oswald,  Oswald !  have  you  -really  come  home  ?  I 
am  so  glad  you  have  come  home  !"  with  a  plunge  of  wel 
come  which  the  stranger  looked  half  annoyed,  half  pleased 
to  encounter.  He  made  a  brotherly  response  to  it  by  stoop 
ing  to  kiss  Joanna,  a  salutation  which  the  girl  underwent 
with  a  heightened  color,  and  a  half-ashamed  look ;  she  had 
meant  to  shake  both  his  hands  violently ;  any  thing  in  the 
shape  of  an  embrace  being  much  out  of  Joanna's  way — but 
Oswald's  hands  were  occupied  with  his  cloak,  which  he  could 
not  permit  to  fall  from  his  shoulders  in  the  fervor  of  his 
brotherly  pleasure.  Holding  it  fast,  he  had  only  half  a  hand 
to  give,  which  Joanna  straightway  possessed  herself  of,  re 
peating  as  she  did  so  her  cry  of  pleasure :  "  Oh,  Oswald, 
how  glad  I  am !  I  have  wished  for  such  a  long  time  that 
you  would  come  home !" 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  my  little  sister — or  should  I  say  my 
big  sister,"  said  the  stranger,  looking  gallant  and  courtier- 
like,  "  but  why,  may  I  ask,  were  you  so  anxious  for  me  now  ? 
that  was  a  sudden  thought,  Joanna." 

Joanna  grew  very  red  as  she  looked  up  in  his  face — then 
unconsciously  she  looked  at  Desiree.  Mr.  Oswald  Huntley 
was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  understood  the  wTays  and 
fancies  of  young  ladies — at  least  he  thought  so.  He  fol 
lowed  Joanna's  glance,  and  a  comical  smile  came  to  his  lips. 
He  took  off  his  hat  with  an  air  half  mocking,  half  reveren 
tial. 

"  May  I  hope  to  be  introduced  to  your  friend,  Joanna  ?" 
said  the  new-found  brother.  With  great  haste,  heat,  and 
perturbation,  blushing  fiery  red,  and  feeling  very  uncom 
fortable,  Joanna  stumbled  through  this  ceremony,  longing 
for  some  private  means  of  informing  the  new-comer  who 
"  her  friend"  was,  ere  accident  or  Patricia  made  him  unfa 
vorably  aware  of  it.  He  was  a  little  amazed  evidently  by 
the  half-pronounced,  half-intelligible  name. 

"  Mademoiselle  Desiree  ?"  he  repeated  after  Joanna,  with 
an  evident  uncertainty,  and  an  air  of  great  surprise. 

"  Oh,  Oswald,  you  have  never  got  my  last  letter,"  cried 
Joanna ;  "  did  you  really  not  know  that  Desiree  was  here  ?" 

"  I  am  the  governess,"  cried  Desiree,  with  immense  pride 


THE    LA.IED     OF    NOEL  AW.  221 

and  dignity,  elevating  her  little  head  and  drawing  up  her 
small  figure.  Patricia  had  done  her  best  during  these  three 
months  to  annoy  and  humiliate  the  little  Frenchwoman — 
but  her  pride  had  never  been  really  touched  until  to-day. 

Oswald's  countenance  cleared  immediately  into  suavity 
and  good-humor — he  smiled,  but  he  bowed,  and  looked 
with  great  graciousness  upon  the  two  girls.  He  could  see 
at  a  glance  how  pretty  and  graceful  was  this  addition  to 
the  household  of  Melmar — and  Oswald  Huntley  was  a  dilet 
tanti.  He  liked  a  pretty  person  as  well  as  a  pretty  picture. 
He  begged  to  know  how  they  could  find  any  pleasure  out 
of  doors  in  this  ferocious  climate  on  such  a  clay — and  with 
a  glance,  and  a  shrug  and  a  shiver  at  the  frosty  languor  of 
the  diminished  Kelpie,  drew  his  cloak  close  round  him,  and 
turned  towards  the  house,  whither,  Joanna  eagerly,  and 
Desiree  with  great  reluctance  and  annoyance,  the  girls  were 
constrained  to  follow.  He  walked  between  them,  inclining 
his  ear  to  his  sister,  who  overwhelmed  him  with  questions, 
yet  addressing  now  and  then  a  courteous  observation  to 
Desiree  which  gradually  mollified  that  little  lady.  He  was 
a  great  deal  more  agreeable  than  Melmar  or  than  Patricia 
— he  was  something  new  in  the  house  at  least — he  knew  her 
own  country,  perhaps  her  own  very  town  and  house.  De 
siree  became  much  softened  as  they  drew  near  the  house, 
and  she  found  herself  able  to  withdraw  and  leave  the 
brother  and  sister  together.  To  know  the  real  value  of  a 
new  face  and  a  new  voice,  one  needs  to  live  for  a  long  win 
ter  in  a  country  house  like  Melmar,  whose  hospitality  was  not 
very  greatly  prized  in  the  country-side.  Desiree  had  quite 
got  over  her  anger  by  the  time  she  reached  her  own  apart 
ment.  She  made  rather  a  pretty  toilet  for  the  evening,  and 
was  pleased,  in  spite  of  herself,  that  there  would  be  some 
one  else  to  talk  to  besides  Melmar,  and  Aunt  Jean  and  Jo 
anna.  The  whole  house,  indeed,  was  moved  with  excite 
ment.  A  dark  Italian  servant,  whom  he  had  brought  with 
him,  was  regulating  with  a  thermometer,  to  the  dismay  and 
wonder  of  all  the  maids,  the  temperature  of  Mr.  Oswald's 
room,  where  these  unscientific  functionaries  had  put  on  a 

freat,  uncomfortable  fire,  piled  half-way  up  the  chimney, 
atricia  had  entered  among  them  to  peer  over  her  brother's 
locked  trunks,  and  see  if  there  was  any  thing  discoverable 
by  curiosity.     Mrs.  Huntley  was  getting  up  in  haste  to  see 


222  THE    LAIKD     OF    NORLAW. 

her  son,  and  even  Aunt  Jean  trotted  up  and  down  stairs  on 
her  nimble  little  feet,  on  errands  of  investigation  and  assist 
ance.  It  made  no  small  commotion  in  the  house  when  the 
only  son  of  Melmar  came  home. 

Oswald  Huntley,  but  for  his  dark  hair,  was  like  his  sister 
Patricia.  He  was  tall,  but  of  a  delicate  form,  and  had 
small  features,  and  a  faint  color  which  said  little  for  his 
strength.  When  they  all  met  together  in  the  evening,  the 
traveled  son  was  by  much  the  most  elegant  member  of  the 
household  circle.  His  dainty,  varnished  boots,  his  delicate 
white  hands,  his  fine  embroidered  linen,  filled  Joanna  with 
a  sentiment  which  was  half  impatience  and  half  admiration. 
Joanna  would  rather  have  had  Oswald  despise  these  delica 
cies  of  apparel,  which  did  not  suit  with  her  ideal  of  man 
hood.  At  the  same  time  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  like 
them,  and  they  dazzled  her.  As  for  Patricia,  she  looked 
from  her  brother  to  herself,  and  colored  red  with  envious 
displeasure.  One  of  Oswald's  rings  would  have  purchased 
every  thing  in  the  shape  of  jewelry  which  Patricia  ever 
had  or  hoped  for — his  valet,  his  dress,  his  "  style,"  at  once 
awed  and  irritated  his  unfortunate  sister.  If  papa  could 
afford  to  keep  Oswald  thus,  was  it  not  a  disgrace  to  confine 
"  me !"  within  the  tedious  bounds  of  this  country  house  ? 
Poor  little  Patricia  could  have  cried  with  envy  and  self 
pity. 

In  the  meantime,  Oswald  made  himself  very  agreeable, 
and  drew  the  little  party  together  as  they  seldom  were 
drawn.  His  mother  sat  up  in  her  easy  chair,  looking  almost 
pretty  with  her  pink  cheeks,  and  for  once  without  any  in 
valid  accompaniments  of  barley-water  or  cut  oranges.  Mel- 
mar  himself  staid  in  the  drawing-room  all  the  evening, 
displaying  his  satisfaction  by  some  occasional  rude  fun  with 
Joanna  and  jokes  at  "  Mademoiselle,"  and  listening  to  his 
son  very  complacently  though  he  seldom  addressed  him. 
Aunt  Jean  had  drawn  her  chair  close  to  Mrs.  Huntley,  and 
seriously  inclined,  not  her  ear  only,  which  was  but  a  dull 
medium,  but  the  lively  black  eyes  with  which  she  seemed 
almost  able  to  hear  as  well  as  see.  Joanna  hung  upon  her 
mother's  footstool,  eagerly  and  perpetually  asking  questions. 
The  only  one  out  of  the  family  group  was  Desiree,  who 
kept  apart,  working  at  her  embroidery,  but  whom  Mr.  Os 
wald  by  no  means  neglected.  The  new  comer  had  good 


THE    LAIED     OF     NORLAW.  223 

taste.  He  thought  the  little  table  which  held  the  gover 
ness's  thread  and  scissors,  and  little  crimson  work-bag,  and 
the  little  chair  close  by,  where  the  little  governess  herself 
sat  working  with  her  pretty  white  hands,  her  graceful  girlish 
dress,  her  dark  hair  in  which  the  light  shone,  and  her  well- 
formed,  well-poised  head  bending  over  her  embroidery,  was 
the  prettiest  bit  in  the  room,  and  well  worth  looking  at. 
He  looked  at  it  accordingly  as  he  talked,  distributing  his 
favors  impartially  among  the  family,  and  wondered  a  little 
who  this  little  girl  might  be,  and  what  brought  her  here. 
When  Oswald  stooped  forward  to  say  something  politely  to 
the  little  Frenchwoman — when  he  brought  a  flush  to  her 
cheek  by  addressing  her  in  her  own  language,  though  De- 
siree's  own  good  sense  taught  her  that  it  was  best  to  reply 
in  English — when  he  pronounced  himself  a  connoisseur  in 
embroidery,  and  inspected  the  pretty  work  in  her  hands — 
his  ailing  mother  and  his  deaf  aunt,  as  well  as  the  spiteful 
Patricia,  simultaneously  perceived  something  alarming  in 
the  courtesy.  Desiree  was  very  young  and  very  pretty, 
and  Oswald  was  capricious,  fanciful,  and  the  heir  of  Melmar. 
What  if  the  little  governess,  sixteen  years  old,  should  capti-  \ 
vate  the  son,  who  was  only  five-and-twenty  ?  The  fear 
sprang  from  one  feminine  mind  to  another,  of  all  save  Jo 
anna,  who  had  already  given  her  thoughts  to  this  catastro 
phe  as  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the  world.  Oswald's  ex 
perience  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  on  which  he  prided 
himself,  went  for  nothing  in  the  estimation  of  his  female  rel 
atives.  They  thought  Desiree,  at  sixteen,  more  than  a 
match  for  him,  as  they  would  have  thought  any  other  girl 
in  the  same  circumstances.  People  say  women  have  no  » 
esprit  du  corps,  but  they  certainly  have  the  most  perfect 
contempt  for  any  man's  powers  of  resistance  before  the  im 
agined  wiles  and  fascinations  of  "  a  designing  girl."  These 
ladies  almost  gave  Oswald  over,  as  he  stood,  graceful  and 
self-satisfied,  in  the  midst  of  them — a  monarch  of  all  he  sur 
veyed — extending  his  lordly  courtesies  to  the  poor  little 
governess.  Had  he  but  known  !  but  he  did  not  know  any 
thing  about  it,  and  said  to  himself  compassionately,  "  Poor 
little  thing — how  pretty  she  is ! — what  could  bring  her 
here  ?"  as  he  threw  himself  back  upon  the  pillow  in  that 
room  of  which  Antonio  had  regulated  the  temperature,  and 
thought  no  more  about  Desiree ;  whereas  poor  little  De- 


224  THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW. 

siree,  charmed  with  the  new  voice,  and  the  new  grace,  and 
the  unusual  kindness,  dreamed  of  him  all  night. 


CHAPTEK  XLV. 

"AM  I  to  understand  that  our  title  is  somehow  endan 
gered  ?  I  do  not  quite  comprehend  your  last  letter,"  said 
Oswald,  addressing  his  father  somewhat  haughtily.  They 
were  in  Melmar's  study,  where  everybody  went  to  discuss 
this  business,  and  where  the  son  sat  daintily  upon  a  chair 
which  he  had  selected  from  the  others  for  his  own  use,  lean 
ing  the  points  of  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  looking 
elaborately  uncomfortable — so  much  so,  that  some  faint 
idea  that  this  study,  after  all,  could  not  be  a  very  pleasant 
apartment,  entered,  for  the  first  time,  the  mind  of  Melmar. 

"Come  nearer  to  the  fire,  Oswald,"  said  Mr.  Huntley, 
suddenly.  He  was  really  solicitous  about  the  health  and 
comfort  of  his  son. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  can  scarcely  breathe  here,"  said  the 
young  man,  ungratefully.  "  Was  I  right,  sir,  in  supposing 
that  to  be  your  reason  for  writing  me  such-  a  letter  as  your 
last  ?" 

"  You  were  right  in  supposing  that  I  wanted  to  see  you," 
said  the  father,  with  some  natural  displeasure.  "  You  live 
a  fine  life  in  foreign  parts,  my  lad ;  you've  little  to  put  you 
about ;  but  what  could  you  do  for  yourself  if  the  funds  at 
Melmar  were  to  fail  ?" 

"  Really  the  idea  is  disagreeable,"  said  Oswald,  laughing. 
"I  had  rather  not  take  it  into  consideration,  unless  it  is  abso 
lutely  necessary." 

"  If  it  were  so,"  said  Melmar,  with  a  little  bitterness, 
41  which  of  you  could  I  depend  upon — which  of  you  would 
stretch  out  a  helping  hand  to  help  me  ?" 

"  To  help  you  f  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I  begin  to  think  you 
must  be  in  earnest,"  said  his  son.  "  What  does  this  mean  ? 
Is  there  really  any  other  claimant  for  the  estate  ?  Have  we 
any  real  grounds  for  fear  ?  Were  not  you  the  heir-at- 
law?" 

"  I  was  the  heir-at-law ;  and  there  is  no  other  claimant," 


THE    LAIKD     OF     NOKLAW.  225 

said  Melmar,  dryly ;  "  but  there  is  a  certain  person  in  exist 
ence,  Oswald  Huntley,  who,  if  she  but  turns  up  soon  enough 
— and  there's  two  or  three  years  yet  to  come  and  go  upon 
— can  turn  both  you  and  me  to  the  door,  and  ruin  us  with 
arrears  of  income  to  the  boot." 

Oswald  grew  rather  pale.  "  Is  this  a  new  discovery  ?"  he 
said,  "  or  why  did  I,  who  am,  next  to  yourself,  the  person 
most  concerned,  never  hear  of  it  before  ?" 

"  You  were  a  boy,  in  the  first  place ;  and  in  the  second 
place,  a  head-strong,  self-willed  lad ;  nextly,  delicate,"  said 
Melmar,  still  with  a  little  sarcasm  ;  "  and  it  remains  to  be 
seen  yet  whether  you're  a  reasonable  man." 

"  Oh,  hang  reason !"  cried  the  young  man  with  excite 
ment.  "  I  understand  all  that.  What's  to  be  done  ?  that 
seems  the  main  thing.  Who  is  this  certain  person  that  has 
a  better  right  to  Melmar  than  we  ?" 

"  Tell  me  first  what  you  would  do  if  you  knew,"  said 
Mr.  Huntley,  bending  his  red  gray  eyes  intently  upon  his 
son.  Melmar  knew  that  there  were  generous  young  fools 
in  the  world,  who  would  not  hesitate  to  throw  fortune  and 
living  to  the  winds  for  the  sake  of  something  called  honor 
and  justice.  He  had  but  little  acquaintance  with  his  son ; 
he  did  not  know  what  stuff  Oswald  was  made  of.  He 
thought  it  just  possible  that  the  spirit  of  such  Quixotes 
might  animate  this  elegant  mass  of  good  breeding  and  dil- 
lettanteism ;  for  which  reason  he  sat  watching  under  his 
grizzled,  bushy  eyebrows,  with  the  intensest  looks  of  those 
fiery  eyes. 

"  Pshaw  !  do  ?  You  don't  suppose  I  would  be  likely  to 
yield  to  any  one  without  a  struggle.  Who  is  it  ?"  said 
Oswald  ;  "  let  me  know  plainly  what  you  mean." 

"  It  is  the  late  Me'mar's  daughter  and  only  child ;  a  woman 
with  children  ;  a  woman  in  poor  circumstances,"  replied  Mr. 
Huntley,  still  with  a  certain  dry  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 

"  But  she  was  disinherited  ?"  said  Oswald,  eagerly. 

"  Her  father  left  a  will  in  her  favor,"  said  Melmar,  "  re 
instating  her  fully  in  her  natural  rights  ;  that  will  is  in  the 
hands  of  our  enemies,  whom  the  old  fool  left  his  heirs,  fail 
ing  his  daughter :  she  and  her  children,  and  these  young 
men,  are  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  estate." 

"  But  she  was  lost— did  I  not  hear  so  ?"  cried  Oswald, 
rising  from  his  chair  in  overpowering  excitement. 

10* 


226  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

"Ay !"  said  his  father,  "  but  I  know  where  she  is." 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  un 
fortunate  young  man;  "is  it  to  bewilder  and  overwhelm 
me  that  you  tell  me  all  this?  Have  we  no  chance?  Are 
we  mere  impostors  ?  Is  all  this  certain  and  beyond  dispute  ? 
What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  is  all  certain,"  said  Melmar,  steadily ;  "  her  right  is 
unquestionable ;  she  has  heirs  of  her  own  blood,  and  I  know 
where  she  is — she  can  turn  us  out  of  house  and  home  to 
morrow — she  can  make  me  a  poor  writer,  ruined  past  re 
demption,  and  you  a  useless  tine  gentleman,  tit  for  nothing 
in  this  world  that  I  know  of,  and  your  sisters  servant-maids, 
for  I  don't  know  what  else  they're  good  for.  All  this  she 
can  do,  Oswald  Huntley,  and  more  than  this,  the  moment 
she  makes  her  appearance — but  she  is  as  ignorant  as  you 
were  half  an  hour  ago.  I  know — but  she  does  not  know." 

What  will  Oswald  do  ? — he  is  pacing  up  and  down  the 
little  study,  no  longer  elegant,  and  calm,  and  sell-possessed ; 
the  faint  color  on  his  cheeks  grows  crimson — the  veins  swell 
upon  his  forehead — a  profuse  cold  moisture  comes  upon  his 
face.  Pacing  about  the  narrow  space  of  the  study,  thrust 
ing  the  line  of  chairs  out  of  his  way,  clenching  his  delicate 
hand  involuntarily  in  the  tumult  of  his  thoughts,  there  could 
not  have  been  a  greater  contrast  than  between  Oswald  at 
his  entrance  and  Oswald  now.  His  father  sat  and  watched 
him  under  his  bushy  eyebrows — watched  him  with  a  steady, 
fixed,  fascinating  gaze,  which  the  young  man's  firmness  was 
not  able  to  withstand.  He  burst  out  into  uneasy,  troubled 
exclamations. 

"  What  are  we  to  do,  then  ? — must  we  go  and  seek  her 
out,  and  humble  ourselves  before  her  ? — must  we  bring  her 
back  in  triumph  to  her  inheritance  ?  It  is  the  only  thing 
we  can  do  with  honor.  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"  Remember,  Oswald,"  said  Melmar,  significantly,  "  she 
does  not  know." 

The  young  man  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  broke  into  low,  muttered  groans  of  vexation 
and  despair,  which  sounded  like  curses,  and  perhaps  were 
so.  Then  he  turned  towards  his  lather  violently  and  sud 
denly,  with  again  that  angry  question,  "  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

He  was  not  without  honor,  he  was  not  without  conscience ; 
if  he  had  there  could  have  been  little  occasion  for  that 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  227 

burning  color,  or  for  the  cold  beads  of  moisture  on  his  fore 
head.  The  sudden  and  startling  intelligence  had  bewildered 
him  for  a  moment — then  he  had  undergone  a  fierce  but  brief 
struggle,  and  then  Oswald  Huntley  sank  into  his  chair,  and 
into  the  hands  of  his  father,  with  that  melancholy  confession 
of  his  weakness — a  question  when  the  matter  was  unques 
tionable — "  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Melmar,  grimly,  regarding  his  son  with 
a  triumph  which,  perhaps,  after  all,  had  a  little  contempt  in 
it.  This,  then,  was  all  the  advantage  which  his  refinement 
and  fine-gentlemauliness  gave  him — a  moment's  miserable, 
weakly  hesitation,  nothing  more  nor  better.  The  father, 
with  his  coarse  methods  of  thought,  and  unscrupulous  mo 
tives,  would  not  have  hesitated  :  yet  not  a  whit  stronger,  as 
it  appeared,  was  the  honor  or  courage  of  the  son. 

"  Nothing  !"  said  Melmar  ;  "  simply  to  keep  quiet,  and  be 
prepared  against  emergencies,  and  if  possible  to  stave  off 
every  proceeding  for  a  few  years  more.  They  have  a  clever 
lad  of  a  lawyer  in  their  interests,  which  is  against  us,  but 
you  may  trust  me  to  keep  him  back  if  it  is  possible ;  a  few 
years  and  we  are  safe — I  ask  nothing  but  time." 

"  And  nothing  from  me  ?"  said  Oswald,  rising  with  a  sul 
len  shame  upon  his  face,  which  his  father  did  not  quite  com 
prehend.  The  young  man  felt  that  he  had  no  longer  any 
standing  ground  of  superiority  ;  he  was  humiliated,  abased, 
cast  down.  Such  advantage  as  there  was  in  moral  obtuse- 
ness  and  strength  of  purpose  lay  altogether  with  Melmar. 
His  son  only  knew  better,  without  any  will  to  do  better.  He 
was  degraded  in  his  own  eyes,  and  angrily  conscious  of  it, 
and  a  sullen  resentment  rose  within  him.  If  he  could  do 
nothing,  why  tell  him  of  this  to  give  him  a  guilty  conscious 
ness  of  the  false  position  which  he  had  not  courage  enough 
to  abandon  ?  Why  drag  him  down  from  his  airy  height  of 
mannerly  and  educated  elevation  to  prove  him  clay  as  mean 
as  the  parent  whom  he  despised  ?  It  gave  an  additional 
pang  to  the  overthrow.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done — 
the  misery  was  inflicted  for  nothing — only  as  a  warning  to 
guard  against  an  emergency  which,  perhaps,  had  it  come  un 
guarded,  might  not  have  stripped  Oswald  so  bare  of  self- 
esteem  as  this. 

"  We'll  see  that,"  said  Melmar,  slowly  ;  then  he  rose  and 
went  to  the  door  and  investigated  the  passages.  No  one 


228  •    ».  <*    THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

was  there.  When  he  retujrned,  he  said  something  in  his 
son's  ear,  which  once  more  brought  a  flush  of  uneasy  shame 
to  his  cheek.  The  father  made  his  suggestion  lightly,  with 
a  chuckle.  The  young  man  heard  it  in  silence,  with  an  in 
describable  look  of  self-humiliation.  Then  they  separated 
— Oswald  to  hurry  out,  with  his  cloak  round  him;  to  the 
grounds  where  he  oould  be  alone — Melmar  to  bite  his  pen 
in  the  study,  and  muse  over  his  victory.  What  would  come 
of  it  ? — his  own  ingenuity  and  that  last  suggestion  which  he 
had  breathed  in  Oswald's  ear.  Surely  these  were  more  than 
enough  to  baffle  the  foolish  young  Livingstones  of  Norlaw, 
and  even  their  youthful  agent  ?  He  thought  so.  The  old 
Aberdonian  felt  secure  in  his  own  skill  and  cunning — he  had 
no  longer  the  opposition  of  his  son  to  dread.  What  should 
he  fear  ? 

In  the  meantime,  Patricia,  who  had  seen  her  brother  leave 
the  house  in  great  haste,  like  a  man  too  late  for  an  appoint 
ment,  and  who  had  spied  a  light  little  figure  crossing  the 
bridge  over  Tyne  before,  wrapped  herself  up,  though  it  was 
a  very  cold  day,  and  set  out  also  to  see  what  she  could 
discover.  Malice  and  curiosity  together  did  more  to  keep 
her  warm  than  the  cloak  and  fur  tippet,  yet  she  almost  re 
pented  when  she  found  herself  among  the  frozen,  snow- 
sprinkled  trees,  with  the  faint  tinkle  of  the  Kelpie  striking 
sharp,  yet  drowsy,  like  a  little  stream  of  metal  through  the 
frost-bound  stillness,  and  no  one  visible  on  the  path,  where 
now  and  then  her  foot  slid  upon  a  treacherous  bit  of  ice,  in 
laid  in  the  hard  brown  soil.  Could  they  have  left  the  grounds 
of  Melmar  ?  Where  could  they  have  gone  ?  If  they  had 
not  met,  one  of  them  must  certainly  have  appeared  by  this 
time  ;  and  Patricia  still  pushed  on,  though  her  cheeks  were 
blue  and  her  fingers  red  with  cold,  and  though  the  intensity 
of  the  chill  made  her  faint,  and  pierced  to  her  poor  little 
heart.  At  last  she  was  rewarded  by  hearing  voices  before 
her.  Yes,  there  they  were.  Desiree  standing  in  the  path, 
looking  up  at  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  from  which  Oswald  was 
stripping  a  bit  of  velvet  moss,  with  bells  of  a  little  white 
fungus,  delicate  and  pure  as  flowers,  growing  upon  it.  As 
Patricia  came  up,  her  brother  presented  the  prize  to  the 
little  Frenchwoman,  almost  with  the  air  of  a  lover.  The 
breast  of  his  poor  little  sister  swelled  with  bitterness,  dis 
like,  and  malicious  triumph.  She  had  found  them  out. 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  229 

"  Oswald !  I  thought  you  were  quite  afraid  of  taking 
cold,"  cried  Patricia — "  dear  me,  who  could  have  supposed 
that  you  would  have  been  in  the  woods  on  such  a  day  !  I 
am  sure  Mademoiselle  ought  to  be  very  proud — you  would 
not  have  come  for  any  one  else  in  the  house." 

"  I  am  extremely  indebted  to  you,  Patricia,  for  letting 
Mademoiselle  know  so  much,"  said  Oswald.  "  One  does  not 
like  to  proclaim  one's  own  merits.  Was  it  on  Mademoiselle's 
account  that  you,  too,  undertook  the  walk,  poor  child  ? 
Corne,  I  will  help  you  home." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  she  does  not  want  me  /"  exclaimed  Patri 
cia,  ready  to  cry  in  the  height  of  her  triumph.  "  Papa  and 
you  are  much  more  in  her  way  than  I  am — as  long  as  she 
can  make  you  gentlemen  do  what  she  pleases,  she  does  not 
care  any  thing  about  your  sisters.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it ! 
— I  know  papa  is  infatuated  about  her,  and  so  are  you,  and 
she  is  a  designing  little  creature,  and  does  not  care  a  bit  for 
Joanna.  You  may  say  what  you  please,  but  I  know  I  am 
right,  and  I  will  not  stand  it  longer — I  shall  go  this  very 
moment  and  tell  mamma !" 

"  Mademoiselle  Huntley  shall  not  have  that  trouble,"  cried 
Desiree,  who  had  been  standing  by  utterly  amazed  for  the 
first  few  moments,  with  cheeks  alternately  burning  red  and 
snow  pale.  "  /  shall  tell  Mrs.  Huntley ;  it  concerns  me  most 
of  any  one.  Mademoiselle  may  be  unkind  if  she  pleases — I 
am  used  to  that — but  no  one  shall  dare,"  cried  the  little  he 
roine,  stamping  her  little  foot,  and  clapping  her  hands  in  sud 
den  passion,  "  to  say  insulting  words  to  me !  I  thank  you, 
Monsieur  Oswald — but  it  is  for  me,  it  is  not  for  you — let  me 
pass — I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Huntley  this  moment,  and  I  shall  go  !" 

"Patricia  is  a  little  fool,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Oswald, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  divert  the  seriousness  of  the  incident. 
"  Nay — come,  we  shall  all  go  together — but  every  person  of 
sense  in  the  house  will  be  deeply  grieved  if  you  take  this 
absurdity  to  heart.  Forget  it;  she  shall  beg  your  pardon. 
Patricia !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  in  a  deep  undertone 
of  passion,  "  you  ridiculous  little  idiot !  do  you  know  what 
you  have  done  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know !  I've  told  the  truth— I  am  too  clear 
sighted  !"  sobbed  Patricia,  "  I  can  not  help  seeing  that  both 
papa  and  you  are  crazy  about  the  governess — it  will  break 
poor  mamma's  heart !" 


230  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

Though  Desiree  was  much  wounded,  ashamed,  and  angry, 
furious  rather,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  could  not  resist  the  lu 
dicrous  whimper  of  this  mock  sorrow.  She  laughed  scorn 
fully. 

"  I  shall  go  by  myself,  please,"  she  said,  springing  through 
a  by-way,  where  Oswald  was  not  agile  enough  or  sufficiently 
acquainted  with  to  follow.  "  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Huntley,  in 
stantly,  and  she  will  not  break  her  heart — but  no  one  in  the 
world  shall  dare  to  speak  thus  again  to  me." 

So  Desiree  disappeared  like  a  bird  among  the  close  net 
work  of  frozen  branches,  and  Patricia  and  her  brother,  ad 
mirable  good  friends,  as  one  might  suppose,  together  pur 
sued  their  way  home. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

A  SERIES  of  violent  scenes  in  Melmar  made  a  fitting  cli 
max  to  this  little  episode  in  the  wood.  Desiree  demanded 
an  interview  with  Mrs.  Huntley,  and  obtained  it  in  that 
lady's  chamber,  which  interview  was  not  over  when  Patricia 
appeared,  and  shortly  after  Melmar  himself,  and  Oswald, 
who  sent  both  the  governess  and  her  enemy  away,  and  had 
a  private  conference  with  the  unfortunate  invalid,  who  was 
not  unwilling  to  take  up  her  daughter's  suspicions,  and  con 
demn  the  little  Frenchwoman  as  a  designing  girl,  with 
schemes  against  the  peace  of  the  heir  of  Melmar.  Somehow 
or  other,  the  father  and  son  together  managed  to  still 
these  suspicions,  or  to  give  them  another  direction  ;  for,  on 
the  conclusion  of  this  conference  Desiree  was  sent  for  again 
to  Mrs.  Huntley's  room ;  the  little  governess  in  the  mean- 
Avhile  had  been  busy  in  her  own,  putting  her  little  possessions 
together  with  angry  and  mortified  haste,  her  heart  swelling 
high  with  a  tumult  of  wounded  pride  and  indignant  feel 
ing.  Desiree  obeyed  with  great  stateliness.  She  found  the 
mother  of  the  house  lying  back  upon  her  pillow,  with  a  flush 
upon  her  pink  cheeks,  and  angry  tears  gleaming  in  her  weak 
blue  eyes.  Mrs.  Huntley  tried  to  be  dignified,  too,  and  to 


THE     LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  231 

tell  Desiree  that  she  was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  there  was 
not  the  slightest  imputation  upon  her,  the  governess ;  but 
finding  this  not  answer  at  all,  and  that  the  governess  still 
stood  in  offended  state,  like  a  little  queen  before  her,  Mrs. 
Huntley  took  to  her  natural  weapons — broke  down,  cried, 
and  bemoaned  herself  over  the  trouble  she  had  with  her 
family,  and  the  vexation  which  Patricia  gave  her.  "  And 
now,  when  I  had  just  hoped  to  see  Joanna  improving,  then 
comes  this  disturbance  in  the  house,  and  my  poor  nerves  are 
shattered  to  pieces,  and  my  head  like  to  burst,  and  you  are 
going  away !"  sobbed  Mrs.  Huntley.  Desiree  was  moved 
to  compassion  ;  she  went  up  to  the  invalid,  and  arranged  her 
cushions  for  her,  and  trusted  all  this  annoyance  would  not 
make  her  ill.  Mrs.  Huntley  seized  the  opportunity ;  she 
went  on  bewailing  herself,  which  was  a  natural  and  con 
genial  amusement,  and  she  made  Desiree  various  half-sincere 
compliments,  with  a  skill  which  no  one  could  have  suspected 
her  of  possessing.  The  conclusion  was,  that  the  little 
Frenchwoman  yielded,  and  gave  up  her  determination  to 
leave  Melmar ;  instead  of  that  she  came  and  sat  by  Mrs. 
Huntley  all  day,  reading  to  her,  while  Patricia  was  shut 
out ;  and  a  storm  raged  below  over  that  exasperated 
and  unhappy  little  girl.  The  next  day  there  was  calm 
weather.  Patricia  was  confined  to  her  room  with  a  head 
ache.  Joanna  was  energetically  affectionate  to  her  gover 
ness,  and  Mrs.  Huntley  came  down  stairs  on  purpose  to 
make  Desiree  feel  comfortable.  Poor  little  Desiree,  who 
was  so  young,  and  in  reality  so  simple-hearted,  forgot  all  her 
resentment.  Her  heart  was  touched  by  the  kindness  which 
they  all  seemed  so  anxious  to  show  her — impulses  of  affec 
tionate  response  rose  within  herself — she  read  to  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ley,  she  put  her  netting  in  order  for  her,  she  arranged 
her  footstool  as  the  invalid  declared  no  one  had  ever  been 
able  to  do  it  before ;  and  Desiree  blushed  and  went  shyly 
away  to  her  embroidery,  when  Oswald  came  to  sit  by  his 
mother's  little  table.  Oswald  was  very  animated,  and 
anxious  to  please  everybody ;  he  found  a  new  story  which 
nobody  had  seen,  and  read  it  aloud  to  them  while  the  ladies 
worked.  The  day  was  quite  an  Elysian  day  after  the 
troubles  of  the  previous  one;  and  Desiree,  with  a  little 
tumult  in  her  heart,  found  herself  more  warmly  established 
in  Melmar  that  evening  than  she  had  ever  been  hitherto ; 


232  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

she  did  not  quite  comprehend  it,  to  tell  the  truth.  All  this 
generous  desire  to  make  her  comfortable,  though  the  girl 
accepted  it  without  question  as  real,  and  never  suspected 
deceit  in  it,  was,  notwithstanding,  alien  to  the  character  of 
the  household,  and  puzzled  her  unconsciously.  But  Desiree 
did  not  inquire  with  herself  what  was  the  cause  of  it.  If 
some  fairy  voice  whispered  a  reason  in  her  ear,  she  blushed 
and  tried  to  forget  it  again.  No,  his  father  and  mother 
were  proud  of  Oswald  ;  they  were  ambitious  for  him ;  they 
would  think  such  a  fancy  the  height  of  folly,  could  it  even 
be  possible  that  he  entertained  it.  No,  no,  no !  it  could  not 
be  that. 

Yet,  next  day,  when  Joanna  and  Desiree  went  out  to 
walk,  Oswald  encountered  them  before  they  had  gone  far, 
and  seemed  greatly  pleased  to  constitute  himself  the  escort 
of  his  sister  and  her  governess.  If  he  talked  to  Joanna 
sometimes,  it  was  to  Desiree  that  his  looks,  his  cares,  his 
undertones  of  half-confidential  conversation  were  addressed. 
He  persuaded  them  out  of  "  the  grounds"  to  the  sunny 
country  road  leading  to  Kirkbride,  where  the  sun  shone 
warmer ;  but  where  all  the  country  might  have  seen  him 
stooping  to  the  low  stature  of  his  sister's  governess.  De 
siree  was  only  sixteen;  she  was  not  wise  and  fortified  against 
the  blandishments  of  man ; — she  yielded  with  a  natural 
pleasure  to  the  natural  pride  and  shy  delight  of  her  position. 
She  had  never  seen  any  one  so  agreeable ;  she  had  never 
received  before  that  unspoken  but  intoxicating  homage  of 
the  young  man  to  the  young  woman,  which  puts  an  end  to 
all  secondary  differences  and  degrees.  She  went  forward 
with  a  natural  expansion  at  her  heart — a  natural  brightening 
in  her  eyes — a  natural  radiance  of  young  life  and  beauty  in 
her  face.  She  could  not  help  it.  It  was  the  first  tender 
touch  of  a  new  sunshine  upon  her  heart. 

A  woman  stood  by  herself  upon  the  road  before  them, 
looking  out,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  entrance  of  a  little  by-way, 
which  ran  through  the  Melmar  woods,  and  near  the  house, 
an  immemorial  road  which  no  proprietor  could  shut  up. 
Desiree  observed  Joanna  run  up  to  this  bystander ;  ob 
served  the  quick,  lively,  middle-aged  features,  the  pleasant 
complexion  and  bright  eyes,  which  turned  for  a  moment  to 
observe  the  party  ;  yet  would  have  passed  on  without  fur 
ther  notice  but  lor  hearing  the  name  of  Cosmo.  Cosmo ! 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  233 

could  this  be  his  mother  ?  Desiree  had  her  own  reasons  for 
desiring  to  see  the  Mistress;  she  went  forward  with  her 
lively  French  self-possession  to  ask  if  it  was  Mrs.  Living 
stone,  and  if  she  might  thank  her  for  her  son's  kindness  in 
Edinburgh.  The  Mistress  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  she 
looked  at  the  Mistress ;  both  the  glances  were  significant, 
and  meant  more  than  a  common  meeting;  half  a  dozen 
words,  graceful  and  proper  on  Desiree's  part,  and  rather  ab 
rupt  and  embarrassed  on  that  of  the  Mistress,  passed  between 
them,  and  then  they  went  upon  their  several  ways.  The 
result  of  the  interview,  for  the  little  Frenchwoman,  was  a 
bright  and  vivid  little  mental  photograph  of  the  Mistress, 
very  clear  in  external  features,  and  as  entirely  wrong  in  its 
guess  at  character  as  was  to  be  expected  from  the  long  and 
far  difference  between  the  little  portrait-painter  and  her  sub 
ject.  Desiree  broke  through  her  own  pleasant  maze  of 
fancy  for  the  moment  to  make  her  rapid  notes  upon  the 
Mistress.  She  was  more  interested  in  her  than  there  seemed 
any  reason  for;  certainly  much  more  than  simply  as  the 
mother  of  Cosmo,  whom  she  had  seen  but  twice  in  her  life, 
and  was  by  no  means  concerned  about. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  asked  Oswald,  when  the  Mistress  had 
passed. 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Livingstone,  of  Norlaw,"  said  Joanna,  "  Cos 
mo's  mother ;  Desiree  knows ;  but  I  wonder  if  she's  going 
up  to  Melmar  ?  I  think  I'll  run  and  ask  her.  I  don't  know 
why  she  should  go  to  Melmar,  for  I'm  sure  she  ought  to 
hate  papa." 

"That  will  do;  I  am  not  particularly  curious — you  need 
not  trouble  yourself  to  ask  on  my  account,"  said  Oswald, 
putting  out  his  hand  to  stop  Joanna,  "and,  pray,  how  does 
Mademoiselle  Desiree  know?  I  should  not  suppose  that 
ruddy  countrywoman  was  much  like  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  I  have  never  seen  her  before,"  said  Desiree. 

"  Ah,  I  might  have  trusted  that  to  your  own  good  taste," 
said  Oswald,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile ;  "  but  you  must  pardon 
me  for  feeling  that  such  a  person  was  not  an  acquaintance 
meet  for  you." 

Desiree  made  no  answer.  The  look  and  the  smile  made 
her  poor  little  heart  beat— she  did  not  ask  herself  why  he 
was  so  interested  in  her  friendships  and  acquaintances.  She 
accepted  it  with  downcast  eyes  and  a  sweet,  rising  color ; 


234  THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW. 

he  did  concern  himself  about  all  the  matters  belonging  to 
her — that  was  enough. 

"  Mrs.  Livingstone  of  Norlaw  is  not  a  common  person — 
she  is  as  good  as  we  are,  if  she  is  not  as  rich,"  cried  Joanna. 
"JT  like  her !  I  would  rather  see  her  than  a  dozen  fine 
ladies,  and,  Desiree,  you  ought  to  stand  up  for  her,  too.  If 
you  think  Norlaw  is  no'  as  good  as  Melmar,  it's  because 
you're  not  of  this  country  and  don't  know — that  is  all." 

Desiree,  looking  up,  saw  to  her  surprise  an  angry  and 
menacing  look  upon  the  face,  which  a  minute  ago  had  been 
bent  with  such  gallant  courtesy  towards  her  own,  and  which 
was  now  directed  to  Joanna. 

"Norlaw  may  be  as  good  as  Melmar,"  said  the  gentle 
Oswald,  with  an  emphasis  which  for  the  moment  made  him 
like  Patricia ;  "  but  that  is  no  reason  why  one  of  that  family 
should  be  a  worthy  acquaintance  for  Mademoiselle  Desiree, 
who  is  not  much  like  you,  Joanna,  nor  your  friends." 

Joanna  loved  Desiree  with  all  her  heart — but  this  was 
going  too  far  even  for  her  patience ;  she  ended  the  conver 
sation  abruptly  by  a  bewildered  stare  in  her  brother's  face, 
and  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Desiree  used  to  be  fond  of  me,  till  you  came — she  was 
my  only  friend !"  cried  poor  Joanna,  whom  Desiree's  kiss 
scarcely  succeeded  in  comforting.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  this  poor  little  governess — it  seemed  fated  that  Os 
wald's  attentions  were  to  embroil  her  with  all  his  family — 
yet  somehow  one  can  not  resent  with  very  stern  virtue  the 
injustice  which  shows  particular  favor  to  one's  self.  Desiree 
still  thought  it  was  very  kind  of  Oswald  Huntley  to  concern 
himself  that  she  should  have  proper  friends. 


CHAPTEE    XLVII. 

KATIE  LOGAN  was  by  herself  in  the  manse  parlor.  Though 
the  room  was  as  bright  as  ever,  the  little  housekeeper  did 
not  look  so  bright.  She  was  darning  the  little  stockings 
which  filled  the  basket,  but  she  was  not  singing  her  quiet 
song,  nor  thinking  pleasant  thoughts.  Katie's  eyes  were 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOEL  AW.  235 

red,  and  her  cheeks  pale.  She  was  beginning  to  go,  dark 
and  blindfold,  into  a  future  which  it  broke  her  heart  to  think 
of.  Those  children  of  the  manse,  what  would  become  of 
them  when  they  had  neither  guide  nor  guardian  but  Katie? 
This  was  question  enough  to  oppress  the  elder  sister,  if  every 
thing  else  had  not  been  swallowed  in  the  thought  of  her 
father's  growing  weakness,  of  the  pallor  and  the  trembling 
which  every  one  observed,  and  of  the  exhaustion  of  old  age 
into  which  the  active  minister  visibly  began  to  fall.  Katie 
was  full  of  these  thoughts  when  she  heard  some  one  come 
to  the  door ;  she  went  immediately  to  look  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  to  do  her  best  to  look  like 
her  wont ;  but  it  was  alike  a  wonder  and  a  relief  to  Katie, 
looking  round,  to  find  the  Mistress,  a  most  unusual  visitor, 
entering  the  room. 

The  Mistress  was  not  much  in  the  custom  of  paying  visits 
— it  embarrassed  her  a  little  when  she  did  so,  unless  she  had 
some  distinct  errand.  She  dropped  into  a  chair  near  the 
door,  and  put  back  her  vail  upon  her  bonnet,  and  looked 
at  Katie  with  a  little  air  of  fatigue  and  past  excitement. 

"  No,  no,  thank  ye,"  said  the  Mistress,  "  I've  been  walk 
ing,  I'll  no'  come  to  the  fire ;  it's  cold,  but  it's  a  fine  day 
outbye — I  just  thought  I  would  take  a  walk  up  by  Whit- 
tock's  Gate." 

"  Were  you  at  Mrs.  Blackadder's  ?"  asked  Katie. 

"  No,"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  slightly  confused  expres 
sion.  "  I  was  no  place,  but  just  taking  a  walk.  What  for 
should  I  no'  walk  for  pleasure  as  well  as  my  neighbors  ?  but 
indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  a  very  foolish  reason,  Katie," 
she  added,  after  a  little  interval.  "  I've  never  had  rest  in 
my  mind  after  what  you  said  of  the  French  lassie  at  Melmar. 
I  did  ken  of  a  person  that  was  lost  and  married  long  ago, 
and  might  just  as  well  be  in  France  as  in  ony  other  place. 
She  was  no  friend  of  mine,  but  I  kent  of  her,  and  I've  seen 
her  picture  and  heard  what  like  she  was,  so,  as  I  could  not 
help  but  turn  it  over  in  my  mind,  I  just  took  the  gate  up 
there,  a  wise  errand,  to  see  if  I  could  get  a  look  of  this 
bairn.  I  meant  to  go  through  the  Melmar  footpath,  though 
that  house  and  them  that  belong  to  it  are  little  pleasure  to 
me  ;  but  as  guid  fortune  was,  I  met  them  in  the  road." 

"  Joanna  and  the  governess  ?"  said  Katie. 

"  And  mair  than  them,"  answered  the  Mistress.     "  A  lad 


236  THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW. 

that  I  would  take  to  be  the  son  that's  been  so  long  away. 
An  antic  with  a  rauckle  cloak,  and  a  black  beard,  and  a'  the 
looks  of  a  French  fiddler ;  but  Joanna  called  him  by  his 
name,  so  he  bid  to  be  her  brother ;  and  either  he's  deluding 
the  other  bit  lassie,  or  she's  ensnaring  him." 

Katie  smiled,  so  faintly  and  unlike  herself,  that  it  was  not 
difficult  to  perceive  how  little  her  heart  was  open  to  amuse 
ment.  The  Mistress,  however,  who  apprehended  every  thing 
after  her  own  fashion,  took  even  this  faint  expression  of 
mirth  a  little  amiss. 

"  You  needna  laugh — there's  little  laughing  matter  in  it," 
said  the  Mistress.  "  If  a  bairn  of  mine  were  to  be  led  away 
after  ony  such  fashion,  do  ye  think  I  could  find  in  my  heart 
to  smile  ?  Na,  they're  nae  friends  of  mine,  the  present 
family  of  Melmar ;  but  I  canna  see  a  son  of  a  decent  house 
maybe  beguiled  by  an  artfu'  foreign  woman,  however  great 
an  antic  he  may  be  himself,  and  take  ony  pleasure  in  it.  It's 
aye  sure  to  be  a  grief  to  them  he  belongs  to,  and  maybe  a 
destruction  to  the  lad  a'  his  life." 

"  But  Desiree  is  only  sixteen,  and  Oswald  Huntley,  if  it 
was  Oswald — is  a  very  great  deal  older — he  should  be  able 
to  take  care  of  himself,"  said  Katie,  repeating  the  offense. 
"  You  saw  her,  then  ?  Do  you  think  she  was  like  the  lady 
you  knew  ?" 

"  I  never  said  I  knew  any  lady,"  said  the  Mistress,  testily. 
"  I  kent  of  one  that  was  lost  mony  a  year  ago.  N"a,  na,  this 
is  naebody  belonging  to  her.  She  was  a  fair,  soft  woman 
that,  with  blue  e'en,  and  taller  than  me ;  but  this  is  a  bit  elf 
of  a  thing,  dark  and  little.  I  canna  tell  what  put  it  into  my 
head  for  a  moment,  for  Melmar  was  the  last  house  in  the 
world  to  look  for  a  bairn's  of  hers  in ;  but  folk  canna  help 
nonsense  thoughts.  Cosmo,  you  see,  he's  a  very  fanciful  lad 
die,  as  indeed  is  no'  to  be  wondered  at,  and  he  wrote  me  hame 
word  about  somebody  he  had  seen — and  then  hearing  of 
this  bairn  asking  questions  about  me  ;  but  it  was  just  havers, 
as  I  kent  from  the  first — she  is  no  more  like  her  than  she's 
like  you  or  me.  But  I'm  sorry  about  the  lad.  Naething 
but  ill  and  mischief  can  come  of  the  like,  so  far  as  I've  seen. 
If  he's  deluding  the  bairn,  he's  a  villain,  Katie,  and  if  she's 
leading  him  on — and  ane  can  never  tell  what  snares  are  in 
these  Frenchwomen  from  their  very  cradle — I'm  sorry  for 
Melmar  and  his  wife,  though  they're  no  friends  to  me." 


THE    LAIED     OF     NOBLAW.  237 

"  I  think  Oswald  Huntley  ought  to  be  very  well  able  to 
take  care  of  himself,"  repeated  Katie — "  and  to  know 
French  ways,  too.  I  like  Desiree,  and  I  don't  like  him.  I 
hope  she  will  not  have  any  thing  to  say  to  him.  When  is 
Cosmo  coming  home  ?" 

The  Mistress,  however,  looked  a  little  troubled  about 
Cosmo.  She  did  not  answer  readily. 

"  He's  a  fanciful  bairn,"  she  said,  half  fondly,  half  an 
grily — "  as  indeed  what  else  can  you  expect  ?  He's  ane  of 
the  real  auld  Livingstones  of  Norlaw — aye  some  grand  wild 
plan  in  his  head  for  other  folks,  and  no'  that  care  for  himseli 
that  might  be  meet.  He  would  have  been  a  knight  like 
what  used  to  be  in  the  ballads  in  my  young  days,  if  he 
hadna  lived  ower  late  for  that." 

Pausing  here,  the  Mistress  closed  her  lips  with  a  certain 
emphatic  movement,  as  though  she  had  nothing  more  to 
say  upon  this  subject,  and  was  about  proceeding  to  some 
other,  when  they  were  both  startled  by  the  noisy  opening 
of  a  door,  which  Katie  knew  to  be  the  study.  The  sound 
was  that  of  some  feeble  hand,  vainly  attempting  to  turn  the 
handle,  and  shaking  the  whole  door  with  the  effort  which 
was  at  last  successful ;  then  came  a  strange,  incoherent, 
half-pronounced  "  Katie !"  Katie  flew  to  the  door,  with  a 
face  like  death  itself.  The  Mistress  rose  and  waited,  breath 
less,  yet  too  conscious  of  her  own  impatience  of  intrusion 
to  follow.  Then  a  heavy,  slow  fall,  as  of  some  one  whose 
limbs  failed  under  him,  a  cry  from  Katie,  and  the  sudden 
terrified  scream  of  one  of  the  maids  from  the  kitchen 
moved  the  Mistress  beyond  all  thoughts  but  those  of  help. 
She  ran  into  the  little  hall  of  the  manse,  throwing  her  cloak 
off  her  shoulders  with  an  involuntary  promise  that  she 
could  not  leave  this  house  to-day.  There  she  saw  a  melan 
choly  sight,  the  minister,  with  a  gray  ashen  paleness  upon 
his  face,  lying  on  the  threshold  of  his  study,  not  insensible, 
but  powerless,  moving  with  a  dreadful  impotence  those 
poor,  pale,  trembling  lips,  from  which  no  sound  would  come. 
Katie  knelt  beside  him,  supporting  his  head,  almost  as  pallid 
as  he,  aggravating,  unawares,  the  conscious  agony  of  his 
helplessness  by  anxious,  tender  questions,  imploring  him  to 
speak  to  her — while  the  maid  stood  behind,  wringing  her 
hands,  crying,  and  asking  whether  she  should  bring  water  ? 
whether  she  should  get  some  wine  ?  what  she  should  do  ? 


238  THE    LAIRD     OF     NOKLAW. 

"  Flee  this  moment,"  cried  the  Mistress,  pushing  this  lat 
ter  to  the  door,  "  and  bring  in  the  first  man  you  can  meet 
to  carry  him  to  his  bed — that's  what  yoitfre,  to  do — and, 
Katie,  Katie,  whisht,  dinna  vex  him — he  canna  speak  to 
you.  Keep  up  your  heart — we'll  get  him  to  his  bed,  and 
we'll  get  the  doctor,  and  he'll  come  round." 

Katie  lifted  up  her  woeful  white  face  to  the  Mistress — the 
poor  girl  did  not  say  a  word — did  not  even  utter  a  sob  or 
shed  a  tear.  Her  eyes  said  only,  "  it  has  come  !  it  has 
come !"  The  blow  which  she  had  been  trembling  for  had 
fallen  at  last.  And  the  Mistress,  who  was  not  given  to 
tokens  of  affection,  stooped  down  in  the  deep  pity  of  her 
heart  and  kissed  Katie's  forehead.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said.  This  sudden  calamity  was  beyond  the  reach  of  speech. 

They  got  the  sufferer  conveyed  to  his  room  and  laid  on  his 
bed  a  few  minutes  after,  arid  within  a  very  short  time  the 
only  medical  aid  which  the  neighborhood  afforded  was  by 
the  bed-side.  But  medical  aid  could  do  little  for  the  minis 
ter — he  was  old,  and  had  long  been  growing  feeble,  and  no 
body  wondered  to  hear  that  he  had  suffered  "  a  stroke," 
and  that  there  was  very,  very  little  hope  of  his  recovery. 
The  old  people  in  Kirkbride  clustered  together,  speaking  or 
it  with  that  strange,  calm  curiosity  of  age,  which  always 
seems  rather  to  congratulate  itself  that  some  one  else  is  the 
present  sufferer,  yet  is  never  without  the  consciousness  that 
itself  may  be  the  next.  A  profound  sympathy,  reverence, 
and  compassion  was  among  all  the  villagers- — passive  to 
wards  Dr.  Logan,  active  to  Katie,  the  guardian  and  mother 
of  the  little  household  of  orphans  who  soon  were  to  have 
no  other  guardian.  They  said  to  each  other,  "  God  help 
her !"  in  her  youth  and  loneliness — what  was  she  to  do  ? 

As  for  the  Mistress,  she  was  not  one  of  those  benevolent 
neighbors  who  share  in  the  vigils  of  every  sick  room,  and 
have  a  natural  faculty  for  nursing.  To  her  own  concen 
trated  individual  temper,  the  presence  of  strangers  in  any 
household  calamity  was  so  distasteful,  that  she  could  scarcely 
imagine  it  acceptable  to  others ;  and  she  never  offered  ser 
vices  which  she  would  not  have  accepted.  But  there  was 
neither  offer  nor  acceptance  now.  The  Mistress  sent  word 
at  once  to  Marget,  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  without  a  word 
to  any  one,  took  her  place  in  the  afflicted  house.  Even  now 
she  was  but  little  in  the  sick  chamber. 


THE    LAIKD    OF     NOEL  AW.  239 

"  If  he  kens  her,  he'll  like  best  to  see  Katie — and  if  he 
doesna  ken  her,  it'll  aye  be  a  comfort  to  herself,"  said  the 
Mistress.  "  I'll  take  the  charge  of  every  thing  else — but  his 
ain  bairn's  place  is  there." 

"  I  only  fear,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  the  poor  thing  will 
wear  herself  out." 

"  She's  young,  and  she's  a  good  bairn,"  said  the  Mistress, 
"  and  she'll  have  but  one  father,  if  she  lives  ever  so  long  a 
life.  I'm  no  feared.  No,  doctor,  dinna  hinder  Katie ;  if 
she  wears  herself  out,  poor  bairn,  she'll  have  plenty  of  sad 
time  to  rest  in.  Na,  I  dinna  grudge  her  watching ;  she 
doesna  feel  it  now,  and  it'll  be  a  comfort  to  her  a'  her  life." 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  new  doctrine  to  the  country  doctor ; 
but  he  acknowledged  the  truth  of  it,  and  the  Mistress,  wise 
in  this,  left  Katie  to  that  mournful,  silent,  sick  room, 
where  the  patient  lay  motionless  and  passive  in  the  torpor 
of  paralysis,  perhaps  conscious,  it  was  hard  to  know — but 
unable  to  communicate  a  word  of  all  that  might  be  in  his 
heart.  The  children  below,  hushed  and  terror-stricken,  had 
never  been  under  such  strict  rule,  yet  never  had  known  so 
many  indulgences  all  their  lives  before ;  and  the  Mistress 
took  her  night's  rest  upon  the  sofa,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  and 
morning  gown,  ready  to  start  in  an  instant,  should  she  be 
called  ;  but  she  did  not  disturb  the  vigil  of  the  daughter  by 
her  father's  bed-side. 

And  Katie,  absorbed  by  her  own  sorrows,  hardly  noticed 
— hardly  knew — this  characteristic  delicacy.  She  sat  watch 
ing  him  with  an  observation  so  intent,  that  she  almost  fan 
cied  she  could  see  his  breath,  watching  the  dull,  gray  eyes, 
half  closed  and  lustreless,  to  note  if,  perhaps,  a  wandering 
light  of  expression  might  kindle  in  them ;  watching  the 
nerveless,  impotent  hands,  if  perhaps,  motion  might  be  re 
stored  to  them ;  watching  the  lips,  lest  they  should  move, 
and  she  might  lose  the  chance  of  guessing  at  some  word. 
There  was  something  terrible,  fascinating,  unearthly  in  the 
task ;  he  was  there  upon  the  bed,  and  yet  he  was  not  there, 
confined  in  a  dismal  speechless  prison,  to  which  perhaps — 
they  could  not  tell — their  own  words  and  movements  might 
penetrate,  but  out  of  which  nothing  could  come.  His 
daughter  sat  beside  him,  looking  forward  with  awe  into  the 
blank  solemnity  of  the  future.  No  mother,  no  father  ;  only 
the  little  dependent  children,  who  had  but  herself  to  look 


240  THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW. 

to.  She  went  over  and  over  again  the  very  same  ground. 
Orphans,  and  desolate  ;  her  thoughts  stopped  there,  and 
went  no  further.  She  could  not  help  contemplating  the 
terrible  necessity  before  her  ;  but  she  could  not  make  plans 
while  her  father  lay  there,  speechless  yet  breathing,  in  her 
sight. 

She  was  sitting  thus,  the  fourth  day  after   his   seizure, 

fazing  at  him;  the  room  was  very  still — the  blinds  were 
own — a  little  fire  burned  cheerfully  in  the  grate — her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  his  eyes,  watching  them,  and  as  she 
watched  it  seemed  to  Katie  that  her  father's  look  turned 
towards  a  narrow,  ruddy,  golden  arrow  of  sunshine,  which 
streamed  in  at  the  side  of  the  window.  She  rose  hastily 
and  went  up  to  the  bed.  Then  his  lips  began  to  move — 
she  bent  down  breathlessly  ;  God  help  her  ! — he  spoke,  and 
she  was  close  to  his  faltering  lips ;  but  all  Katie's  strained 
and  agonizing  senses  could  not  tell  a  word  of  what  he  meant 
to  say.  What  matter  ?  His  eyes  were  not  on  her,  but  on 
the  sunshine — the  gleam  of  God's  boundless  light  coming 
in  to  the  chamber  of  mortality — his  thoughts  were  not  with 
her  in  her  sore  youthful  trouble.  He  was  as  calm  as  an 
angel,  lying  there  in  the  death  of  his  old  age  and  the  chill 
of  his  faculties.  But  she — she  was  young,  she  was  desolate, 
she  was  his  child — her  heart  cried  out  in  intolerable  anguish, 
and  would  not  be  satisfied.  Could  it  be  possible  ?  Would 
he  pass  away  with  those  moving  lips,  witli  that  faint  move 
ment  of  a  smile,  and  she  never  know  what  he  meant  to  say  ? 
With  the  restlessness  of  extreme  and  almost  unbearable 
suffering,  Katie  rang  her  bell — the  doctor  had  desired  to 
know  whenever  his  patient  showed  any  signs  of  returning 
consciousness.  Perhaps  the  sound  came  to  the  ear  of  the 
dying  man,  perhaps  only  his  thoughts  changed.  But  when 
she  turned  again,  Katie  found  the  reverent  infantine  calm 
gone  from  his  face,  and  his  eyes  bent  upon  her  with  a  terri 
ble  struggle  after  speech,  which  wrung  her  very  heart.  She 
cried  aloud  involuntarily  with  an  echo  of  the  agony  upon 
that  ashen  face.  The  sound  of  her  voice,  of  her  hasty  step 
and  of  the  bell,  brought  the  Mistress  to  the  room,  and  the 
terrified  servants  to  the  door.  Katie  did  not  see  the  Mis 
tress  ;  she  saw  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  pitiful  struggle 
of  those  palsied  lips  to  speak  to  her,  the  anguish  of  uncom- 
municable  love  in  those  opened  eyes.  She  bent  over  him, 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  241 

putting  her  very  ear  to  his  mouth ;  when  that  failed,  she 
tried,  Heaven  help  her,  to  look  as  if  she  had  heard  him,  to 
comfort  his  heart  in  his  dying.  The  old  man's  eyes  opened 
wider,  dilating  with  the  last  effort — at  last  came  a  burst  of 
incoherent  sound — he  had  spoken — what  was  it  ?  The  Mis 
tress  turned  her  head  away  and  bowed  down  upon  her 
knees  at  the  door,  with  an  involuntary  awe  and  pity,  too 
deep  for  any  expression,  but  Katie  cried,  "  Yes,  father,  yes, 
I  hear  you !"  with  a  cry  that  might  have  rent  the  skies.  If 
she  did,  Heaven  knows;  she  thought  so — and  so  did  he; 
the  effort  relaxed — the  eyes  closed — and  word  of  human 
language  the  good  minister  uttered  never  more. 

It  was  all  over.  Four  little  orphans  sat  below  crying 
under  their  breath,  unaware  of  what  was  their  calamity — 
and  Katie  Logan  above,  at  nineteen,  desolate  and  unsup 
ported,  and  with  more  cares  than  a  mother,  stood  alone 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  world. 


CHAPTEK    XLVIII. 

WHILE  the  peaceful  Manse  of  Kirkbride  was  turned  into 
a  house  of  mourning,  a  strange  little  drama  was  being 
played  at  Melmar.  The  household  there  seemed  gradually 
clustering,  a  strange  chorus  of  observation,  round  Oswald 
and  Desiree,  the  two  principal  figures  in  the  scene.  Melmar 
himself  watched  the  little  Frenchwoman  with  cat-like 
stealthiness,  concentrating  his  regard  upon  her.  Aunt 
Jean  sat  in  her  chair  apart,  troubled  and  unenlightened, 
perpetually  calling  Desiree  to  her,  and  inventing  excuses 
to  draw  her  out  of  the  presence  and  society  of  Oswald. 
Patricia,  when  she  was  present  in  the  family  circle,  directed 
a  spiteful  watch  upon  the  two,  with  the  vigilance  of  an  ill- 
fairy  ;  while  even  Joanna,  a  little  shocked  and  startled  by 
the  diversion  of  Desiree's  regard  from  herself,  a  result  which 
she  had  not  quite  looked  for,  behaved  very  much  like  a 
jealous  lover  to  the  poor  little  governess,  tormenting  her 
by  alternate  sulks  and  violent  outbursts  of  fondness. 
Oswald  himself,  though  he  was  always  at  her  side,  though 
he  gave  her  a  quite  undue  share  of  his  time  and  attention, 

11 


242  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

and  made  quite  fantastical  exhibitions  of  devotion,  was  A 
lover,  if  lover  he  was,  ill  at  ease,  capricious  and  overstrained. 
He  knew  her  pretty,  he  felt  that  she  was  full  of  mind,  and 
spirit,  and  intelligence — but  still  she  was  a  little  girl  to 
Oswald  Huntley,  who  was  not  old  enough  to  find  in  her 
fresh  youth  the  charm  which  has  subdued  so  many  a  man  of 
the  world — nor  young  enough  to  meet  her  on  equal  ground. 
Why  he  sought  her  at  all,  unless  he  had  really  "  fallen  in 
love"  with  her,  it  seemed  very  hard  to  find  out.  Aunt 
Jean,  looking  on  with  her  sharp  black  eyes,  could  only 
shake  her  head  in  silent  wonder,  and  doubt,  and  discomfort. 
He  could  have  "  nae  motive" — but  Aunt  Jean  thought  that 
lovers  looked  differently  in  her  days,  and  a  vague  suspicion 
disturbed  the  mind  of  the  old  woman.  She  used  to  call 
Desiree  to  her  own  side,  to  keep  her  there  talking  of  her 
embroidery,  or  telling  her  old  stories  of  which  the  girl 
began  to  tire,  being  occupied  by  other  thoughts.  The  hero 
himself  was  unaware  of,  and  totally  indifferent  to,  Aunt 
Jean's  scrutiny,  but  Melmar  himself  sometimes  turned  his 
fiery  eyes  to  her  corner,  with  a  glance  of  doubt  and  appre 
hension.  She  was  the  only  spectator  in  the  house  of  whose 
inspection  Mr.  Huntley  was  at  all  afraid. 

Meanwhile  Desiree  herself  lived  in  a  dream — the  first 
dream  of  extreme  youth,  of  a  tender  heart  and  gentle 
imagination,  brought  for  the  first  time  into  personal  contact 
with  the  grand  enchantress  and  Armida  of  life.  Desiree 
was  not  learned  in  the  looks  of  lover's  eyes — she  had  no 
"  experience,"  poor  child  !  to  guide  her  in  this  early  experi 
ment  and  trembling  delight  of  unfamiliar  emotion.  She 
knew  she  was  poor,  young,  solitary,  Joanna's  little  French 
governess,  yet  that  it  was  she,  the  little  dependent,  whom 
Joanna's  graceful  brother,  everybody  else's  superior,  singled 
out  for  his  regard.  Her  humble  little  heart  responded  with 
all  a  young  girl's  natural  flutter  of  pride,  of  gratitude,  of 
exquisite  and  tremulous  pleasure.  There  could  be  but  one 
reason  in  the  world  to  induce  this  unaccustomed  homage 
and  devotion.  She  could  not  believe  that  Oswald  admired 
or  found  any  thing  remarkable  in  herself,  only — strange 
mystery,  not  to  be  thought  of  save  with  the  blush  of  that 
profoundest  humility  which  is  born  of  affection ! — only,  by 
some  unexplainable,  unbelievable  wonder,  it  must  be  love. 
Desiree  did  not  enter  into  any  questions  on  the  subject; 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOBLAW.  243 

she  yielded  to  the  fascination ;  it  made  her  proud,  it  made 
her  humble,  it  filled  her  with  the  tenderest  gratitude,  it 
subdued  her  little  fiery  spirit  like  a  spell.  She  was  very, 
very  young,  she  knew  nothing  of  life  or  of  the  world,  she 
lived  in  a  little  world  of  her  own,  where  this  grand  figure 
was  the  centre  of  every  thing;  and  it  was  a  grand  figure  in 
the  dewy,  tender  light  of  Desiree's  young  eyes — in  the  per 
fect  globe  of  Desiree's  maiden  fancy— but  it  was  not  Oswald 
Huntley,  deeply  though  the  poor  child  believed  it  was. 

So  they  all  grouped  around  her,  watching  her,  some  of 
them  perplexed,  some  of  them  scheming ;  and  Oswald  play 
ed  his  part,  sometimes  loathing  it,  but,  for  the  most  part, 
finding  it  quite  agreeable  to  his  vanity,  while  poor  little  De- 
siree  went  on  in  her  dream,  thinking  she  had  fallen  upon  a 
charmed  life,  seeing  every  thing  through  the  glamour  in  her 
own  eyes,  believing  every  thing  was  true. 

"  Dr.  Logan  is  ill,"  said  Melmar,  on  one  of  those  fairy 
days,  when  they  all  met  round  the  table  at  lunch  ;  all  but 
Mrs.  Huntley,  who  had  relapsed  into  her  quiescent  invalid- 
ism,  and  was  made  comfortable  in  her  own  room — "  very  ill 
— so  ill  that  I  may  as  well  mind  my  promise  to  old  Gordon 
of  Ruchlaw  for  his  minister-son." 

"  Oh,  papa,  don't  be  so  hard-hearted !"  cried  Joanna — 
"  he'll  maybe  get  better  yet.  He's  no'  such  a  very  old  man, 
and  he  preached  last  Sabbath-day.  Oh,  poor  Katie  !  but  he 
has  not  been  a  week  ill  yet,  and  he'll  get  better  again." 

"  Who  is  Gordon  of  Ruchlaw  ?  and  who  is  his  minister- 
son  ?"  asked  Oswald. 

Joanna  made  a  volunteer  answer. 

"  A  nasty,  snuify,  disagreeable  man !"  cried  Joanna,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  I  am  sure  I  would  never  enter  the  church 
again  if  he  was  there  ;  but  it's  very  cruel  and  hard-hearted, 
and  just  like  papa,  to  speak  of  him.  Dr.  Logan  is  only  ill. 
I  would  break  my  heart  if  I  thought  he  was  going  to  die." 

"  Gordon  would  be  a  very  useful  man  to  us,"  said  Mel- 
mar — "  a  great  deal  more  so  than  Logan  ever  was.  I  mean 
to  write  and  ask  him  here,  now  that  his  time's  coming.  Be 
quiet,  Joan,  and  Jet's  have  no  more  nonsense.  I'll  tell 
Auntie  Jean.  If  you  play  your  cards  well,  you  might  have 
a  good  chance  of  him  yourself,  you  monkey,  and  with  Aunt 
Jean's  fortune  to  furnish  the  manse,  you  might  do  worse. 
Ha !  ha !  I  wonder  what  Patricia  would  say  ?" 


244  THE    LAIBD     OF    NOBLAW. 

"  Patricia  would  say  it  was  quite  good  enough  for  Joan 
na,"  said  that  amiable  young  lady.  "  A  poor  Scotch  minis 
ter  !  I  am  thankful  /  never  had  such  low  tastes.  Nobody 
would  speak  of  such  a  thing  to  me." 

"  Don't  quarrel  about  the  new  man  till  the  old  man  is 
dead,  at  least,"  said  Oswald,  laughing.  "  Mademoiselle  De 
siree  quite  agrees  with  me,  I  know.  She  is  shocked  to  hear 
all  this.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  his  daughter,"  said  Desiree,  who  was  very 
much  shocked,  and  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  She  will  be  an 
orphan  now." 

"  And  Desiree  was  very  fond  of  Katie,"  said  Joanna, 
looking  half  jealously,  half  fondly  at  the  little  governess, 
"  and  so  am  I  too  ;  and  she  has  all  the  little  ones  to  take 
care  of.  Oh,  papa,  I'll  never  believe  that  Dr.  Logan  is  going 
to  die." 

"  Fhat  is  all  this,  Joan  ?  tell  me,"  cried  Aunt  Jean,  who 
had  already  shown  signs  of  curiosity  and  impatience.  This 
was  the  signal  for  breaking  up  the  party.  When  Joanna 
put  her  lips  close  to  the  old  woman's  ear,  and  began  to  shout 
the  required  information,  the  others  dispersed  rapidly.  De 
siree  went  to  her  room  to  get  her  cloak  and  bonnet.  It  was 
her  hour  for  walking  with  her  pupil,  and  that  walk  was  now 
an  enchanted  progress,  a  fairy  road,  leading  ever  further 
and  further  into  her  fairy  land.  As  for  Oswald,  he  stood  in 
the  window,  looking  out  and  shrugging  his  shoulders  at  the 
cold.  His  blood  was  not  warm  enough  to  bear  the  chill  of 
the  northern  wind ;  the  sight  of  the  frost-bound  paths  and 
whitened  branches  made  him  shiver  before  he  Avent  out. 
He  meant  to  attend  the  girls  in  their  walk,  in  spite  of  his 
shiver;  but  the  frosty  path  by  the  side  of  Tyne  was  not  a 
fairy  road  to  him. 

Joanna  had  left  them  on  some  erratic  expedition  among 
the  trees ;  they  were  alone  together,  Desiree  walking  by 
Oswald's  side,  very  quiet  and  silent,  with  her  eyes  cast  down, 
and  a  tremor  at  her  heart.  The  poor  little  girl  did  not  ex 
pect  any  thing  particular,  for  they  were  often  enough  togeth 
er  thus — still  she  became  silent  in  spite  of  herself,  as  she 
wandered  on  in  her  dream  by  Oswald's  side,  and,  in  spite 
of  herselfj  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  felt  the  color  wavering 
on  her  cheek.  Perhaps  he  saw  it  and  was  pleased — he  liked 
such  moments  well  enough.  They  had  all  the  amusing, 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NOELAW.  245 

tantalizing,  dramatic  pleasure  of  moments  which  might  be 
turned  to  admirable  account,  but  never  were  so — moments 
full  of  expectation  and  possibility,  of  which  nothing  ever 
came. 

At  this  particular  moment  Oswald  was,  as  it  happened, 
very  tenderly  gracious  to  Desiree.  He  was  asking  about 
her  family,  or  rather  her  mother,  whom,  it  appeared,  he  had 
heard  of  without  hearing  of  any  other  relative,  and  Desiree, 
in  answering,  spoke  of  Marie — who  was  Marie  ?  "  Did  I 
never,  then,  tell  you  of  my  sister  ?"  said  Desiree  with  a  blush 
and  smile. 

"  Your  sister  ? — I  was  not  aware — "  stammered  Oswald — 
and  he  looked  at  her  so  closely  and  coldly,  and  with  such  a 
scrutinizing  air  of  suspicion,  that  Desiree  stared  at  him,  in 
return,  with  amazement  and  half-terror — "  Perhaps  Made 
moiselle  Desiree  has  brothers  also,"  he  said,  in  the  same  tone, 
still  looking  at  her  keenly.  What  if  she  had  brothers  ? 
Would  it  have  been  wrong  ? 

"  No,"  said  Desiree,  quietly.  The  poor  child  was  subdued 
by  the  dread  of  having  wounded  him.  She  thought  it 
grieved  him  to  have  so  little  of  her  confidence ;  it  could  be 
nothing  but  that  which  made  him  look  so  cold  and  speak  so 
harsh. 

"  Then  Mademoiselle  Marie  is  a  little  sister — a  child  ?"  said 
Oswald,  softening  slightly. 

Desiree  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  with  sudden  glee. 
"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  cried  merrily,  "she  is  my  elder  sister; 
she  is  not  even  Mademoiselle  ;  she  is  married  !  Poor  Ma 
rie  !"  added  the  little  girl,  softly.  "  I  wish  she  were  here." 

And  for  the  moment  Desiree  did  not  see  the  look  that  re 
garded  her.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes  again,  she  started 
and  could  not  comprehend  the  change.  Oswald's  lip  was 
blue  with  cold,  writh  dismay,  with  contempt,  with  a  mixture 
of  feelings  which  his  companion  had  no  clue  to,  and  could 
not  understand.  "  Mademoiselle  has,  no  doubt,  a  number 
of  little  nephews  and  nieces,"  he  said,  with  a  sinister  curl  of 
that  blue  lip  over  his  white  teeth.  The  look  struck  to  De- 
siree's  heart  with  a  pang  of  amazement  and  terror — what 
did  it  mean  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  any,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  blush.  She 
was  startled  and  disturbed  out  of  all  her  maiden  fancies — 
was  it  a  nervous,  jealous  irritation,  to  find  that  she  had 


246  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW. 

friends  more  than  lie  knew.  It  was  very  strange — and  when 
Joanna  rejoined  them  shortly,  Oswald  made  an  excuse  for 
himself,  and  left  them.  The  girls  followed  him  slowly,  after 
a  time,  to  the  house  ;  Desiree  could  scarcely  answer  Joan 
na's  questions,  or  appear  interested  in  her  pupil's  interests. 
What  was  the  reason  ?  She  bewildered  her  poor  little  head 
asking  this  question ;  but  no  answer  came. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

IT  was  a  kind  of  twilight  in  Aunt  Jean's  room,  though  it 
was  still  daylight  out  of  doors ;  the  sun,  as  it  drew  to  the 
west,  threw  a  ruddy  glory  upon  this  side  of  the  house  of 
Melmar,  and  coming  in  at  Aunt  Jean's  window,  had  thrown 
its  full  force  upon  the  fire-place  half  an  hour  ago.  It  was 
the  old  lady's  belief  that  the  sun  put  out  the  fire,  so  she  had 
drawn  down  her  blind,  and  the  warm,  domestic  glimmer  of 
the  firelight  played  upon  the  high  bed,  with  those  heavy, 
dull,  moreen  curtains,  which  defied  all  brightness — upon  the 
brighter  toilet-glass  on  the  table,  and  upon  the  old  lofty 
chest  of  drawers,  polished  and  black  like  ebony,  which  stood 
at  the  further  side  of  the  room.  Aunt  Jean  herself  sat  in  a 
high-backed  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  where  she  loved  to  sit — 
and  Desiree  and  Joanna,  kneeling  on  the  rug  before  her, 
were  turning  out  the  contents  of  a  great  basket,  full  of  such 
scraps  as  Aunt  Jean  loved  to  accumulate,  and  girls  have 
pleasure  in  turning  over ;  there  were  bits  of  silk,  bits  of 
splendid  old  ribbon,  long  enough  for  "  bows,"  in  some  cases, 
but  in  some  only  fit  for  pin-cushions  and  needle-books  of 
unbelievable  splendor,  bits  of  lace,  bits  of  old-fashioned  em 
broidery,  bits  of  almost  every  costly  material  belonging  to 
a  lady's  wardrobe.  It  was  a  pretty  scene ;  the  basket  on 
the  rug,  with  its  many-colored  stores,  the  pretty  little  figure 
of  Desiree,  with  the  fire-light  shining  in  her  hair,  the  less 
graceful  form  of  Joanna,  which  still  was  youthful,  and  honest, 
and  eager,  as  she  knelt  opposite  the  fire,  which  flushed  her 
face  and  reddened  her  hair  at  its  will ;  and  calmly  seated  in 
her  elbow-chair,  overseeing  all,  Aunt  Jean,  with  her  white 
neckerchief  pinned  over  her  gown,  and  her  white  apron 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  247 

warm  in  the  fire-light,  and  the  broad  black  ribbon  bound 
round  her  old-fashioned  cap,  and  the  vivacious  sparkle  of 
those  black  eyes,  which  were  not  "  hard  of  hearing,"  though 
their  owner  was.  The  pale  daylight  came  in  behind  the  old 
lady,  faintly  through  the  misty  atmosphere  and  the  closed 
blind — but  the  ruddier  domestic  light  within  went  flickering 
and  sparkling  over  the  high-canopied  bed,  the  old-fashioned 
furniture,  and  the  group  by  the  hearth.  When  Joanna 
went  away,  the  picture  was  even  improved  perhaps,  for  De- 
siree  still  knelt  half  meditatively  by  the  fire,  turning  over 
with  one  hand  the  things  in  the  basket,  listening  to  what 
the  old  lady  said,  and  wistfully  pondering  upon  her  own 
thoughts. 

"  Some  o'  the  things  were  here  when  I  came,"  said  Aunt 
Jean.  "  I  was  not  so  auld  then  as  I  am  now — I  laid  them 
a'  away,  Deseery,  for  fear  the  real  daughter  of  the  house 
should  ever  come  hame ;  for  this  present  Melmar  wasna 
heir  by  nature.  If  right  had  been  right,  there's  ane  before 
him  in  the  succession  to  this  house ;  but,  poor  misguided 
thing,  f  ha  was  gaun  to  seek  her ;  but  I  laid  by  the  bits  o' 
things ;  I  thought  they  might  'mind  her  some  time  of  the 
days  o'  her  youth." 

"  Who  was  she  ?"  said  Desiree,  softly  :  she  did  not  ask  so 
as  to  be  heard  by  her  companion — she  did  not  ask  as  if  she 
cared  for  an  answer — she  said  it  quietly,  in  a  half  whisper 
to  herself;  yet  Aunt  Jean  heard  Desiree's  question  with  her 
lively  eyes,  which  were  fixed  npon  the  girl's  pretty  figure, 
half  kneeling,  half  reclining  at  her  feet. 

"  Fha  was  she  ?  She  was  the  daughter  of  this  house," 
said  Aunt  Jean,  "  and  f  hat's  mair,  the  mistress  of  this 
house,  Deseery,  if  she  should  ever  come  hame." 

The  little  Frenchwoman  looked  up  sharply,  keenly,  with 
an  alarmed  expression  on  tier  face.  She  did  not  ask  any 
further  question,  but  she  met  Aunt  Jean's  black  eyes  with 
eyes  still  brighter  in  their  youthful  lustre,  yet  dimmed  with 
an  indefinable  cloud  of  suspicion  and  fear. 

What  was  in  the  old  woman's  mind  it  was  hard  to  tell. 
Whether  she  had  any  definite  ground  to  go  upon,  or  merely 
proceeded  on  an  impulse  of  the  vague  anxiety  in  her  mind. 

"  Deed,  ay,"  said  Aunt  Jean,  nodding  her  lively  little 
head,  "  I'll  tell  you  a'  her  story,  my  dear,  and  you  can  tell 
me  f  hat  you  think  when  I'm  done.  She  was  the  only  bairn 


248  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

and  heir  of  that  silly  auld  man  that  was  Laird  of  Melmar 
before  this  present  lad,  my  niece's  good-man — she  was  very 
bonnie,  and  muckle  thought  of,  and  she  married  and  ran 
away,  and  that's  all  the  folk  ken  of  her,  Deseery ;  bill 
whisht,  bairn,  and  I'll  tell  you  mair." 

Desiree  had  sunk  lower  on  her  knees,  leaning  back,  with 
her  head  turned  anxiously  towards  the  story-teller.  She 
was  an  interested  listener  at  least. 

"  It's  aye  thought  she  was  disinherited,"  said  Aunt  Jean, 
"  and  at  the  first,  when  she  ran  away,  maybe  so  she  was — 
but  nature  will  speak.  When  this  silly  auld  man,  as  I'm 
saying,  died,  he  left  a  will  setting  up  her  rights,  and  left  it 
in  the  hand  of  another  silly  haverel  of  a  man,  that  was  a  bit 
sma'  laird  at  Norlaw.  This  man  was  to  be  heir  himsel'  if 
she  never  was  found — but  he  had  a  sma'  spirit,  Deseery, 
and  he  never  could  find  her.  She's  never  been  found  from 
that  day  to  this — but  it'll  be  a  sore  day  for  Melmar  when 
she  comes  name." 

"Why?"  said  Desiree,  somewhat  sharply  and  shrilly, 
with  a  voice  which  reached  the  old  woman's  ears,  distant 
though  they  were. 

"  Fhat  for  ? — because  they'll  have  to  ^,ive  up  all  the  lands, 
and  all  the  siller,  and  all  their  living  into  her  hand — that's 
f  hat  for,"  said  Aunt  Jean  ;  "  nae  person  in  this  country-side 
can  tell  if  she's  living,  or  f  haur  she  is ;  she's  been  away 
langer  than  you've  been  in  this  life,  Deseery ;  and  Melmar, 
the  present  laird — I  canr.a  blame  him,  he  was  the  next  of  the 
blood  after  hersel',  nae  doubt  he  thought  she  was  dead  and 
gane,  as  a'body  else  did  when  he  took  possession — and  his 
heart  rose  doubtless  against  the  other  person  that  was  left 
heir,  failing  her,  being  neither  a  Huntley  nor  nigh  in  blood  ; 
but  if  aught  should  befall  to  bring  her  hame — ay,  Deseery, 
it  would  be  a  sore  day  for  this  family,  and  every  person  in 
this  house." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Desiree  again  with  a  tremble — this  time 
her  voice  did  not  reach  the  ear  of  Aunt  Jean,  but  her 
troubled,  downcast  eyes,  her  disturbed  look,  touched  the 
old  woman's  heart. 

"  If  it  was  a  story  I  was  telling  out  of  a  book,"  said  the 
old  woman,  "  I  would  say  they  were  a'  in  misery  at  keeping 
her  out  of  her  rights — or  that  the  man  was  a  villain  that 
held  her  place — but  you're  no'  to  think  that.  I  dinna 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NOEL  AW.  249 

doubt  he  heeds  his  ain  business  mair  than  he  heeds  her — 
it's  but  natural,  fha  would  do  otherwise  ?  and  then  he  takes 
comfort  to  his  mind  that  she  must  be  dead,  or  she  would 
have  turned  up  before  now,  and  then  he  thinks  upon  his  ain 
family,  and  considers  his  first  duty  is  for  them  ;  and  then — 
deed  ay,  my  dear,  memory  fails — I  wouldna  say  but  he 
often  forgets  that  there  was  another  person  in  the  world 
but  himsel'  that  had  a  right — that's  nature,  Deseery,  just 
nature— folk  learn  to  think  the  way  it's  their  profit  to  think, 
and  believe  what  suits  them  best,  and  they're  sincere,  too, 
except  maybe  just  at  the  first ;  you  may  not  think  it,  being 
a  bairn,  yet  it's  true." 

"  If  it  were  me,"  cried  Desiree,  with  a  vehemence  which 
penetrated  Aunt  Jean's  infirmity,  "  the  money  would  burn 
me,  would  scorch  me,  till  I  could  give  it  back  to  the  true 
heir !" 

"Ay,"  said  Aunt  Jean,  shaking  her  head,  "I  wouldna 
say  I  could  be  easy  in  my  mind  mysel' — but  it's  wonderful 
how  weel  the  like  of  you  and  me,  my  dear,  can  settle  ither 
folks'  concerns.  Melmar,  you  see,  he's  no'  an  ill  man,  he 
thinks  otherwise,  and  I  daur  to  say  he's  begun  to  forget  a' 
about  her,  or  just  thinks  she's  dead  and  gane,  as  most  folk 
think.  I  canna  help  aye  an  expectation  to  see  her  back 
before  I  die  mysel' — but  that's  no'  to  say  Me'mar  has  ony 
thought  of  the  kind.  Folk  that  are  away  for  twenty  years, 
and  never  seen,  nor  heard  tell  o',  canna  expect  to  be  minded 
upon  and  waited  upon.  It's  very  like,  upon  the  whole,  that 
she  is  dead  many  a  year  syne — and  fhat  for  should  Melmar, 
that  kens  nothing  about  her — aye  except  that  she  could 
take  his  living  away  frae  him — fhat  for,  I'm  asking,  should 
Melmar  gang  away  upon  his  travels  looking  for  her,  like 
yon  other  haverel  of  a  man  ?" 

"  What  other  man  ?"  cried  Desiree,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  just  Norlaw ;  he  was  aince  a  wooer  himsel',  poor 
haverel,"  said  Aunt  Jean  ;  "  he  gaed  roaming  about  a'  the 
world,  seeking  after  her,  leaving  his  wife  and  his  bonny 
bairns  at  hame  ;  but  fhat  good  did  he  ? — just  nought  ava, 
Deseery,  except  waste  his  ain  time,  and  lose  his  siller,  and 
gie  his  wife  a  sair  heart.  She's  made  muckle  mischief  in  her 
day,  this  Mary  of  Melmar.  They  say  she  was  very  bonnie, 
though  I  never  saw  her  mysel' ;  and  fhat  for,  think  you, 
should  the  present  lad,  that  kens  nought  about  her,  take  up 

11* 


250  THE    LAIBD     OF    NOELAW. 

his  staff  and  gang  traveling  the  world  to  seek  for  her? 
Oh,  tie,  nae ! — he  has  mair  duty  to  his  ain  house  and  bairns, 
than  to  a  strange  woman  that  he  kens  not  where  to  seek, 
and  that  would  make  him  a  beggar  if  he  found  her ;  I  canna 
see  she  deserves  ony  such  thing  at  his  hand." 

At  first  Desiree  did  not  answer  a  word ;  her  cheek  was 
burning  hot  with  excitement,  her  face  shadowed  with  an 
angry  cloud,  her  little  hand  clenched  involuntarily,  her 
brow  knitted.  She  was  thinking  of  something  private  to 
herself,  which  roused  a  passion  of  resentment  within  the 
breast  of  the  girl.  At  last  she  started  up  and  came  close  to 
Aunt  Jean. 

"But  if  you  knew  that  she  was  living,  and  where  she 
was  ?"  cried  Desiree,  "what  would  you  do  ?'y 

"Me!  Oh,  my  bairn!"  cried  Aunt  Jean,  in  sudden  dis 
may.  "  Me !  what  have  I  to  do  with  their  concerns  ? — me ! 
it's  nane  of  my  business.  The  Lord  keep  that  and  a'  evil 
out  of  a  poor  auld  woman's  knowledge.  I  havena  eaten 
his  bread — I  never  would  be  beholden  that  far  to  any 
mortal — but  I've  sitten  under  his  roof  tree  for  mony  a  year. 
Me ! — if  I  heard  a  word  of  such  awfu'  news,  I  would  gang 
furth  of  this  door  this  moment,  that  I  mightna  be  a  traitor 
in  the  man's  very  dwelling ; — eh,  the  Lord  help  me,  the 
thought's  dreadful !  for  I  behoved  to  let  her  ken  !" 

"And  what  if  he  knew  ?"  asked  Desiree,  in  a  sharp  whis- 

£er,  gazing  into  Aunt  Jean's  eyes  with  a  look  that  pierced 
ke  an  arrow.  The  old  woman's  look  fell,  but  it  was  not  to 
escape  this  gaze  of  inquiry. 

"The  Lord  help  him  !"  said  Aunt  Jean,  pitifully.  "  I  can 
but  hope  he  would  do  right,  Deseery ;  but  human  nature's 
frail ;  I  canna  tell." 

This  reply  softened  for  the  moment  the  vehement,  angry 
look  of  the  little  Frenchwoman.  She  came  again  to  kneel  be 
fore  the  fire,  and  was  silent,  thinking  her  own  thoughts  ;  then 
another  and  a  new  fancy  seemed  to  rise  like  a  mist  over  her 
face.  She  looked  up  dismayed  to  Aunt  Jean,  with  an  unex 
plained  and  terrified  question,  which  the  old  woman  could 
not  interpret.  Then  she  tried  to  command  herself  with  an 
evident  effort — but  it  was  useless.  She  sprang  up,  and  came 
close,  with  a  shivering  chill  upon  her,  to  put  her  lips  to  Aunt 
Jean's  ear. 

"  Do  they  all  know  of  this  story  ?"  she  asked,  in  the  low, 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOELAW.  251 

sharp  voice,  strangely  intent  and  passionate,  which  even 
deafness  itself  could  not  refuse  to  hear  ;  and  Desiree  fixed 
her  gaze  upon  the  old  woman's  eyes,  holding  her  fast  with 
an  eager  scrutiny,  as  though  she  trembled  to  be  put  off  with 
any  thing  less  than  the  truth. 

"  Hout,  no  !"  said  Aunt  Jean,  disturbed  a  little,  yet  con 
fident  ;  "  f  ha  would  tell  the  like  of  Patricia  or  Joan — fuils 
and  bairns !  and  as  for  the  like  of  my  niece  herself,  she's 
muckle  taken  up  with  her  ain  bits  of  troubles ;  she  might 
hear  of  it  at  the  time,  but  she  would  forget  the  day  after ; 
naebody  minds  but  me." 

"And — Oswald  ?"  cried  Desiree,  sharply,  once  again. 

"  Eh !  ay — I  wasna  thinking  upon  him  ;  he's  the  heir," 
said  Aunt  Jean,  turning  her  eyes  sharp  and  keen  upon  her 
young  questioner.  "  I  canna  tell  f  hat  for  you  ask  me  so 
earnest,  bairn ;  you  maunna  think  mair  of  Oswald  Huntley 
than  becomes  baith  him  and  you  ;  ay,  doubtless,  you're 
right,  whatever  learned  ye — he  kens." 

Desiree  did  not  say  another  word,  but  she  clasped  her 
hands  tightly  together,  sprang  out  of  the  room  with  the 

Eace  of  a  deer,  and  before  Aunt  Jean  had  roused  herself 
•om  her  amazement,  had  thrown  her  cloak  over  her  shoul 
ders,  and  rushed  out  into  the  gathering  night. 


CHAPTEE   L. 

THE  sunset  glory  of  this  January  evening  still  shone 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees  upon  the  high  bank  of  Tyne, 
leaving  a  red  illumination  among  the  winter  clouds ;  but 
low  upon  the  path  the  evening  was  gathering  darkly  and 
chilly,  settling  down  upon  the  ice-cold  branches,  which 
pricked  the  hasty  passenger  like  thorns,  in  the  black  dry- 
ness  of  the  frost.  The  Kelpie  itself  was  scarcely  recogniz 
able  in  the  torpid  and  tiny  stream  which  trickled  down  its 
little  ravine ;  only  the  sharp  sound  of  its  monotone  in  the 
tingling  air  made  you  aware  of  its  vicinity ;  and  frozen  Tyne 
no  longer  added  his  voice  to  make  the  silence  musical. 
The  silence  was  dry,  hard,  and  harsh,  the  sounds  were  shrill, 
the  air  cut  like  a  knife.  No  creature  that  could  find  shelter 


252  THE    LAIED     OF   NOEL  A.  W. 

was  out  of  doors  ;  yet  poor  little  Desiree,  vehement,  willful, 
and  passionate,  with  her  cloak  over  her  shoulders,  and  her 
pretty  uncovered  head,  exposed  to  all  the  chill  of  the  un 
kindly  air,  went  rushing  out,  with  her  light  foot  and  little 
fairy  figure,  straight  as  an  arrow  over  Tyne,  and  came  up 
the  frozen  path,  into  the  wood  and  the  night. 

One  side  of  her  face  was  still  scorched  and  crimsoned 
with  the  fervor  of  Aunt  Jean's  fire,  before  which  she  had 
been  bending  ;  the  other,  in  comparison,  was  already  chilled 
and  white.  She  ran  along  up  the  icy,  chilly  road,  with  the 
night-wind  cutting  her  delicate  little  ears,  and  her  rapid 
footsteps  sliding  upon  the  knots  of  roots  in  the  path,  straight 
up  to  that  height  where  the  Kelpie  trickled,  and  the  last  red 
cloud  melted  into  gray  behind  the  trees.  The  dubious,  fail 
ing  twilight  was  wan  among  those  branches,  where  never  a 
bird  stirred.  There  was  not  a  sound  of  life  anywhere,  save 
in  the  metallic  tinkle  of  that  drowsing  waterfall.  Desiree 
rushed  through  the  silence  and  the  darkness,  and  threw  her 
self  down  upon  the  hard  path,  on  one  of  the  hard  knots, 
beneath  a  tree.  She  was  not  sorry,  in  her  passionate  aban 
don^  to  feel  the  air  prick  her  cheek,  to  see  the  darkness 
closing  over  her,  to  know  that  the  cold  pierced  to  the  bone, 
and  that  she  was  almost  unprotected  from  its  rigor.  All  this 
desolation  was  in  keeping  with  the  tumult  which  moved  the 
willful  heart  of  the  little  stranger.  The  prick  of  the  wind 
neutralized  somewhat  the  fiery  prick  in  her  heart. 

Poor  little  Desiree!  She  had,  indeed,  enough  to  think 
of — from  her  morning's  flush  of  happiness  and  dawning 
love  to  plunge  into  a  cold  profound  of  treachery,  deceit,  and 
falsehood  like  that  which  gaped  at  her  feet,  ready  to  swal 
low  her  up.  For  the  moment  it  was  anger  alone,  passionate 
and  vivid  as  her  nature,  which  burned  within  her.  She, 
frank,  child-like,  and  unsuspicious,  had  been  degraded  by  a 
pretended  love,  a  false  friendship ;  had  been  warned,  "  for 
her  own  sake,"  by  the  treacherous  host  whom  Desiree  hated, 
in  her  passion,  to  say  nothing  of  her  descent  or  of  her  mo 
ther.  For  her  own  sake  !  and  not  a  syllable  of  acknowledg 
ment  to  confess  how  well  the  wily  schemer  knew  who  that 
mother  was.  Yet,  alas,  if  that  had  but  been  all ! — if  there 
had  been  nothing  to  do  but  to  confound  Melmar,  to  re 
nounce  Joanna,  to  shake  off  the  dust  of  her  indignant  feet 
against  the  house  where  they  would  have  kept  her  in  bond- 


THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW.  253 

age ! — if  that  had  but  been  all !  But  Desiree  clenched  her 
little  hands  with  a  pang  of  angry  and  bitter  resentment  far 
more  overpowering.  To  think  that  she  should  have  been 
insulted  with  a  false  love  !  Bitter  shame,  quick,  passionate 
anger,  even  the  impulse  of  revenge,  came  like  a  flood  over 
the  breast  of  the  girl,  as  she  sat  shivering  with  cold  and  pas 
sion  at  the  foot  of  that  tree,  with  the  dark  winter  night 
closing  over  her.  She  could  almost  fancy  she  saw  the  curl 
of  Oswald  Huntley's  lip  as  he  heard  to-day,  on  this  very 
spot,  that  she  had  a  sister ;  she  could  almost  suppose,  if  he 
stood  there  now,  that  she  had  both  strength  and  will  to 
thrust  him  through  the  rustling  bushes  down  to  the  crack 
ling,  frozen  Tyne,  to  sink  like  a  stone  beneath  the  ice,  which 
was  less  treacherpus  than  himself.  Poor  little  desolate,  sol 
itary  stranger  !  She  sat  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold,  with 
the  tears  freezing  in  her  eyes,  but  passion  burning  in  her 
heart ;  she  cried  aloud  in  the  silence  with  an  irrepressible 
cry  of  fury  and  anguish — the  voice  of  a  young  savage,  the 
uncontrolled,  unrestrained,  absolute  violence  of  a  child.  She 
was  half  crazed  with  the  sudden  downfall,  the  sudden  in 
jury  ;  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  sin  that  had  been 
done  against  her,  the  vengeance,  sharp  and  sudden  as  her 
passion,  which  she  would  inflict  if  she  could. 

But  as  poor  little  Desiree  crouched  beneath  the  tree, 
not  even  the  vehemence  of  her  resentment  could  pre 
serve  her  from  the  influences  of  Nature.  Her  little  feet 
seemed  frozen  to  the  path;  her  hands  were  numb  and 
powerless,  and  ice-cold  as  the  frozen  water  beneath.  The 
chill  stole  to  her  heart  with  a  sickening  faintness,  then 
a  gradual  languor  crept  over  her  passion;  by  degrees 
she  felt  nothing  but  the  cold,  the  sharp  rustle  of  the 
branches,  the  chill  gloom  of  the  night,  the  harsh  wind 
that  blew  in  at  her  uncovered  ears.  Her  hair  fell  down 
on  her  neck,  and  her  fingers  were  too  powerless  to 
put  it  up.  She  had  no  heart  to  return  to  the  house 
from  which  she  fled  in  so  violent  an  excess  of  insulted  feel 
ing — it  almost  seemed  that  she  had  no  place  in  the  world 
to  go  to,  poor  child,  but  this  desolate  winter  woodland, 
which  in  its  summer  beauty  she  had  associated  with  her 
mother.  The  night  blinded  her,  and  so  did  the  growing 
sickness  of  extreme  cold.  Another  moment,  and  poor  little 
Desiree  sank  against  the  tree,  passionless  and  fainting — the 


254  THE     LAIRD    OP    NORLAW. 

last  thought  in  her  heart  a  low  outcry  for  her  mother,  who 
was  hundreds  of  miles  away  and  could  not  hear. 

The  cold  was  still  growing  sharper  and  keener  as  the  last 
glimmer  of  daylight  faded  out  of  the  skies.  She  might  have 
slid  down  into  the  frozen  Tyne,  as  she  had  imagined  her 
enemy,  or  she  might  have  perished  in  her  favorite  path,  in 
the  cold  which  was  as  sharp  as  an  Arctic  frost.  But  Provi 
dence  does  not  desert  those  poor,  suffering,  wicked  children 
who  fly  to  death's  door  at  the  impulse  of  passion  as  Desiree 
did.  A  laborer,  hastening  home  by  the  footpath  through 
the  Melmar  woods,  wandered  out  of  his  way,  by  chance, 
and  stumbled  over  the  poor  little  figure  lying  in  the  path. 
When  the  man  had  got  over  his  first  alarm,  he  lifted  her  up 
and  carried  her  like  a  child — she  was  not  much  more — to 
Melmar,  where  he  went  to  the  side  door  and  brought  her 
in  among  the  servants  to  that  great  kitchen,  which  was  the 
most  cheerful  apartment  in  the  house.  The  maids  were 
kind-hearted,  and  liked  the  poor  little  governess — they 
chafed  her  hands  and  bathed  her  feet,  and  wrapped  her  in 
blankets,  and,  at  last,  brought  Desiree  to  her  senses.  When 
she  came  alive  again,  the  poor,  naughty  child  looked  round 
her  bewildered,  and  did  not  know  where  she  was — the  place 
was  strange  to  her — and  it  looked  so  bright  and  homely 
that  Desiree's  poor  little  heart  was  touched  by  a  vague 
contrasting  sense  of  misery. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  sadly,  turning  her 
face  away  from  the  light  to  a  kind  housemaid,  who  stood 
by  her,  and  who  could  not  tell  what  ailed  "  the  French 
miss,"  whom  all  the  servants  had  thought  rather  too  well- 
used  of  late  days,  and  whose  look  of  misery  seemed  unac 
countable. 

"  Eh,  Missie,  but  ye  maun  wait  until  the  fire's  kindled," 
said  the  maid. 

Desiree  did  not  want  a  fire — she  had  no  desire  to  be 
comforted  and  warmed,  and  made  comfortable — she  would 
almost  rather  have  crept  out  again  into  the  cold  and  the 
night.  Notwithstanding,  they  carried  her  up  stairs  care 
fully,  liking  the  stranger  all  the  better  for  being  sad  and  in 
trouble  and  dependent  on  them — and  undressed  her  like  a 
child,  and  laid  her  in  bed  in  her  little  room,  warm  with 
firelight,  and  looking  bright  with  comfort  and  kindness. 
Then  the  pretty  housemaid,  whom  Patricia  exercised  her 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOELAW.  255 

tempers  on,  brought  Desiree  a  warm  drink  and  exhorted 
her  to  go  to  sleep. 

"  What  made  ye  rin  out  into  the  cauld  night,  Missie, 
without  a  thing  on  your  head,"  said  Jenny  Shaw,  compas 
sionately  ;  "  but  lie  still  and  keep  yoursel'  warm — naebody 
kens  yet  but  us  in  the  kitchen,  or  Miss  Joan  would  be  here  ; 
but  I  thought  you  would  like  best  to  be  quiet,  and  it  would 
do  you  mair  good." 

"  Oh,  dear  Jenny,  don't  let  any  one  know — don't  tell 
them — promise  !"  cried  Desiree,  half  starting  from  her  bed. 

The  maid  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it,  but  she 
promised,  to  compose  the  poor  little  sufferer ;  and  so  De 
siree  was  left  by  herself  in  the  little  room,  with  the  warm 
fire  light  flickering  about  the  walls,  and  her  little  hands  and 
feet,  which  had  been  so  cold,  burning  and  prickling  with  a 
feverish  heat,  her  limbs  aching,  her  thoughts  wandering, 
her  heart  lost  in  an  ineffable,  unspeakable  melancholy.  She 
could  not  return  to  her  passion,  to  the  bitter  hurry  and 
tumult  of  resentful  fancies  which  had  occupied  her  out  of 
doors.  She  lay  thinking,  trying  to  think,  vainly  endeavor 
ing  to  confine  the  wandering  crowd  of  thoughts,  which 
made  her  head  ache,  and  which  seemed  to  float  over  every 
subject  under  heaven.  She  tried  to  say  her  prayers,  poor 
child,  but  lost  them  in  an  incoherent  mist  of  fancy.  She  fell 
asleep,  and  awoke  in  a  few  minutes,  thinking  she  had  slept 
for  hours — worse  than  that,  she  fell  half  asleep  into  a  painful 
drowse,  where  waking  thoughts  and  dreams  mingled  with 
and  confused  each  other.  Years  of  silence  and  unendurable 
solitude  seemed  to  pass  over  her  before  Jenny  Shaw  came 
up  stairs  again  to  ask  her  how  she  was,  and  the  last  thing 
clear  in  Desiree's  remembrance  was  that  Jenny  promised 
once  more  not  to  tell  any  one.  Desiree  did  not  know  that 
the  good-hearted  Jenny  half  slept,  half  watched  in  her  room 
all  that  night.  The  poor  child  knew  nothing  next  day  but 
that  her  limbs  ached,  and  her  head  burned,  and  that  a  dull 
sense  of  pain  was  at  her  heart.  She  was  very  ill. with  all 
her  exposure  and  suffering — she  was  ill  for  some  time, 
making  a  strange  commotion  in  the  house.  But  no  one  had 
any  idea  of  the  cause  of  her  illness,  save  perhaps  Aunt  Jean, 
who  did  not  say  a  word  to  any  one,  but  trotted  about  the 
sick-room,  "cheering  up"  the  little  sick  stranger  and 
finding  out  her  wants  with  strange  skill  in  spite  of  her  deaf- 


256  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOB.LAW. 

ness.  All  the  time  of  Desiree's  illness  Aunt  Jean  took  not 
the  slightest  notice  of  Oswald  Huntley — she  was  doubly  deaf 
when  he  addressed  her — she  lost  even  her  sharp  and  lively 
eyesight  when  he  encountered  her  on  the  stair.  Aunt  Jean 
did  not  know  what  ailed  Desiree  besides  the  severe  cold 
and  fever  which  the  doctor  decided  on,  but  the  old  woman 
remembered  perfectly  at  what  point  of  their  conversation  it 
was  that  the  little  girl  rushed  from  her  side  and  fled  out  of 
the  house — and  she  guessed  at  many  things  with  a  keen  and 
lively  penetration  which  came  very  near  the  truth.  And  so 
Desiree  was  very  ill,  and  got  slowly  well  again,  bringing 
with  her  out  of  her  sickness  a  thing  more  hard  to  cure  than 
fever — a  sick  heart. 


CHAPTEK    LI. 

WHILE  all  these  new  events  and  changes  were  disturbing 
the  quiet  life  of  the  home  district  at  Melmar,  and  Norlaw, 
and  Kirkbride,  Cosmo  Livingstone  wandered  over  classic 
ground  with  Cameron  and  his  young  pupil,  and  sent  now 
and  then,  with  modest  pride,  his  contribution  to  the  Auld 
Reekie  Magazine,  which  had  now  been  afloat  for  four 
months,  and  on  account  of  which  Mr.  Todhunter,  in  his  turn, 
sent  remittances — not  remarkably  liberal,  yet  meant  to  be 
so,  in  letters  full  of  a  rude,  yet  honest,  vanity,  which  im 
pressed  the  lad  with  great  ideas  of  what  the  new  periodical 
was  to  do  for  the  literary  world.  So  far,  all  was  satisfactory 
with  Cosmo.  He  was  very  well  off  also  in  his  companions. 
Cameron,  who  had  been  shy  of  undertaking  a  manner  of 
life  which  was  so  new  to  him,  and  whom  all  the  innkeepers 
had  fleeced  unmercifully  on  the  first  commencement  of  their 
travels — for  the  very  pride  which  made  him  starve  in  his 
garret  at  home,  out  of  everybody's  ken,  made  him,  unused 
and  inexperienced  as  he  was,  a  lavish  man  abroad,  where 
everybody  was  looking  on,  and  where  the  thought  of 
"meanness"  troubled  his  spirit.  But  by  this  time,  even 
Cameron  had  become*  used  to  the  life  of  inns  and  journeys, 
and  was  no  longer  awed  by  the  idea  that  landlords  and 


THE    LAIED    OP    NOEL  AW.  257 

waiters  would  suspect  his  former  poverty,  or  that  his  pupil 
himself  might  complain  of  undue  restraint.  The  said  pupil, 
whose  name  was  Macgregor,  was  good-natured  and  com 
panionable,  without  being  any  thing  more.  They  had  been 
in  Italy,  in  Switzerland,  and  in  Germany.  They  had  all  ac 
quired  a  traveler's  smattering  of  all  the  three  tongues  fami 
liar  on  their  road — they  had  looked  at  churches,  and  pic 
tures,  and  palaces,  till  those  eyes  which  were  unguided  by 
Murray,  and  knew  just  as  much,  or  rather  as  little,  of  art, 
as  the  bulk  of  their  countrymen  at  the  time,  became  fairly 
bewildered,  and  no  longer  recollected  which  was  which. 
They  were  now  in  France,  in  chilly  February  weather,  on 
their  way  home.  Why  they  pitched  upon  this  town  of  St. 
Ouen  for  their  halt  it  would  have  been  hard  to  explain.  It 
was  in  Normandy,  for  one  reason,  and  Cosmo  felt  rather 
romantically  interested  in  that  old  cradle  of  the  conquering 
race.  It  was  within  reach  of  various  places  of  historic  in 
terest.  Finally,  young  Macgregor  had  picked  up  some 
where  a  little  archaic  lore,  which  was  not  a  common  accom 
plishment  in  those  days,  and  St.  Ouen  was  rich  in  old  archi 
tecture.  Thus  they  lingered,  slow  to  leave  the  shores  ol 
France,  which  was  not  sunny  France  in  that  February,  but 
had  been  the  beginning  and  was  about  to  be  the  end  of  their 
pleasant  wandering,  and  where  accordingly  they  were  glad 
to  rest  for  a  little  before  returning  home. 

Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  Cosmo  would  a  great  deal 
rather  have  tarried  on  the  very  edge  of  the  country,  at  the 
little  sea-port  which  bowed  Jaacob  called  "  Deep,"  and  where 
that  sentimental  giant  had  seen,  or  fancied  he  had  seen,  the 
lady  of  his  imagination.  Cosmo  had  enjoyed  his  holiday 
heartily,  as  became  his  temperament  and  years,  yet  he  was 
returning  disappointed,  and  even  a  little  chagrined  and 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  had  started  with  the  full  and 
strong  idea  that  what  his  father  could  not  succeed  in  doing, 
and  what  advertisements  and  legal  search  had  failed  in,  he 
himself,  by  himself \  could  do — and  he  was  now  going  home 
somewhat  enlightened  as  to  this  first  fallacy  of  youth.  He 
had  not  succeeded,  he  had  not  had  the  merest  gleam  or 
prospect  of  success ;  Mary  of  Melmar  was  as  far  off,  as  to 
tally  lost,  as  though  Cosmo  Livingstone,  who  was  to  be  her 
knight  and  champion,  had  never  known  the  story  of  hei 
wrongs,  and  Time  was  gliding  away  with  silent,  inevitable 


•J58  THE    LAIKD     OP    NORLAW. 

rapidity.  A  year  and  a  half  of  the  precious  remaining  in 
terval  was  over.  Huntley  had  been  at  his  solitary  work  in 
Australia  for  nearly  a  whole  year,  and  Huntley 's  heart  was 
bent  on  returning  to  claim  Melmar,  if  he  could  but  make 
money  enough  to  assert  his  right  to  it.  This  Cosmo  knew 
from  his  brother's  letters,  those  to  himself,  and  those  which 
his  mother  forwarded  to  him  (in  copy).  He  loved  Huntley, 
but  Cosmo  thought  he  loved  honor  more — certainly  he  had 
more  regard  for  the  favorite  dream  of  his  own  imagination, 
which  was  to  restore  the  lost  lady  to  her  inheritance.  But 
he  had  not  found  her,  and  now  he  was  going  home  ! 

However,  they  were  still  in  St.  Ouen.  Since  Cameron 
recovered  himself  out  of  his  first  flutter  of  shy  extravagance 
and  fear  lest  he  should  be  thought  "mean,"  they  had 
adopted  an  economical  method  of  living  when  they  staid 
long  in  any  one  place.  Instead  of  living  at  the  inn,  they 
had  taken  rooms  for  themselves,  a  proceeding  which  Came 
ron  flattered  himself  made  them  acquainted  with  the  natives. 
On  this  principle  they  acted  at  St.  Ouen.  Their  rooms 
were,  two  on  the  premier  etage  for  Cameron  and  his  pupil, 
and  one  au  troisieme  for  Cosmo.  Cosmo's  was  a  little  room 
in  a  corner,  opening  by  a  slim,  ill-hung  door  upon  the  com 
mon  stair-case — where  rapid  French  voices,  arid  French  feet, 
not  very  light,  went  up  the  echoing  flight  above  to  the 
mansarde,  and  made  jokes,  which  Cosmo  did  not  under 
stand,  upon  the  young  Englishman's  boots,  standing  in  for 
lorn  trustfulness  outside  his  door,  to  be  cleaned.  Though 
Cosmo  had  lived  in  a  close  in  the  High  Street,  he  was  quite 
unused  to  the  public  traffic  of  this  stair-case,  and  sometimes 
suddenly  extinguished  his  candle  with  a  boy's  painful 
modesty,  at  the  sudden  fancy  of  some  one  looking  through 
his  keyhole,  or  got  up  in  terror  with  the  idea  that  a  band  of 
late  revelers  might  pour  in  and  find  him  in  bed,  in  spite  of 
the  slender  defense  of  lock  and  key.  The  room  itself  was 
very  small,  and  had  scarcely  a  feature  in  it,  save  the  little 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  which  always  struck  in  direct  and 
independent  opposition  to  the  great  bell  of  St.  Ouen.  The 
window  was  in  a  corner,  overshadowed  by  the  deep  projection 
of  the  next  house,  which  struck  off  from  Cosmo's  wrall  in  a 
right  angle,  and  kept  him  obstinately  out  of  the  sunshine. 
Up  in  the  corner,  au  troisieme,  with  the  next  door  neigh 
bor's  blank  gable  edging  all  his  light  away  from  him,  you 


THE    LAIED    OF    NORLAW.  259 

would  not  have  thought  there  was  any  thing  very  attractive 
in  Cosmo's  window — yet  it  so  happened  that  there  was. 

Not  in  the  window  itself,  though  that  was  near  enough 
the  clouds — but  Cosmo,  looking  down,  looked,  as  his  good 
fortune  was,  into  another  window  over  the  way,  a  pretty 
second  floor,  with  white  curtains  and  flowers  to  garnish  it, 
and  sunshine  that  loved  to  steal  in  for  half  the  day.  It  was 
a  pretty  point  of  itself,  with  its  little  stand  of  early-bloom 
ing  plants,  and  its  white  curtains  looped  up  with  ribbon. 
The  plants  were  but  early  spring  flowers,  and  did  not  at 
all  screen  the  bright  little  window  which  Cosmo  looked  at, 
as  though  it  had  been  a  picture — and  even  when  the  even 
ing  lamp  was  lighted,  no  jealous  blinds  were  drawn  across 
the  cheerful  light.  The  lad  was  not  impertinent  nor  curi 
ous,  yet  he  sat  in  the  dusk  sometimes,  looking  down  as  into 
the  heart  of  a  little  sacred  picture.  There  were  only  two 
people  ever  in  the  room,  and  these  were  ladies,  evidently  a 
mother  and  daughter — one  of  them  an  invalid.  That  there 
was  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  on  which  some  one  nearly  always  lay 
— that  once  or  twice  in  the  day  this  recumbent  figure  was 
raised  from  the  couch,  and  the  two  together  paced  slowly 
through  the  room — and  that,  perhaps  once  a  week,  a  little 
carriage  came  to  the  door  to  take  the  sick  lady  out  for  a 
drive,  was  all  that  Cosmo  knew  of  the  second  person  in  this 
interesting  apartment ;  and  the  lad  may  have  been  supposed 
to  be  sufficiently  disinterested  in  his  curiosity,  when  we  say 
that  the  only  face  which  he  ever  fully  saw  at  that  bright 
window  was  the  face  of  an  old  lady — a  face  as  old  as  his  J 
mother's.  It  was  she  who  watered  the  flowers  and  looped  ' 
the  curtains — it  was  she  who  worked  within  their  slight  shad 
ow,  always  visible — and  it  was  she  who,  sometimes  looking 
up  and  catching  his  eye,  smiled  either  at  or  to  Cosmo,  causing 
him  to  retreat  precipitately  for  the  moment,  yet  leaving  no 
glance  of  reproach  on  his  memory  to  forbid  his  return. 

Beauty  is  not  a  common  gift ;  it  is  especially  rare  to  the 
fanciful,  young  imagination,  which  is  very  hard  to  please, 
save  where  it  loves.  This  old  lady,  however,  old  though 
she  was,  caught  Cosmo's  poetic  eye  with  all  the  glamour, 
somehow  tenderer  than  if  she  had  been  young,  of  real  love 
liness.  She  must  have  been  beautiful  in  her  youth.  She 
had  soft,  liquid,  dark-blue  eyes,  full  of  a  motherly  ^  and 
tender  light  now-a-days,  and  beautiful  light-brown  hair,  in 


260  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

which,  at  this  distance,  it  was  not  possible  to  see  the  silvery 
threads.  She  was  tall,  with  a  natural  bend  in  her  still 
pliant  form,  which  Cosmo  could  not  help  comparing  to  the 
bend  of  a  lily.  He  said  to  himself,  as  he  sat  at  his  window, 
that  he  had  seen  many  pretty  girls,  but  never  any  one  so 
beautiful  as  this  old  lady.  Her  sweet  eyes  of  age  captivated 
Cosmo;  he  was  never  weary  of  watching  her.  He  could 
have  looked  down  upon  her  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  as  she 
sat  working  with  her  white  hands,  while  the  sun  shone  upon 
her  white  lace  cap,  and  on  the  sweet  old  cheek,  with  its 
lovely  complexion,  which  was  turned  to  the  window ;  or 
when  she  half  disappeared  within  to  minister  to  the  other 
half  visible  figure  upon  the  sofa.  Cosmo  did  not  like  to  tell 
Cameron  of  his  old  lady,  but  he  sat  many  an  hour  by  him 
self  in  this  little  room,  to  the  extreme  wonderment  of  his 
friend,  who  supposed  it  was  all  for  the  benefit  of  the  Auld 
Reekie  Magazine,  and  smiled  a  little  within  himself  at  the 
lad's  literary  enthusiasm.  For  his  part,  Cosmo  dreamed 
about  his  opposite  neighbors,  and  made  stories  for  them  in 
his  own  secret  imagination,  wondering  if  he  ever  could 
come  to  know  them,  or  if  he  left  St.  Ouen,  whether  they 
were  ever  likely  to  meet  again.  It  certainly  did  not  seem 
probable,  and  there  was  no  photography  in  those  days  to 
enable  Cosmo  to  take  pictures  of  his  beautiful  old  lady  as 
she  sat  in  the  sunshine.  He  took  them  on  his  own  mind 
instead,  and  he  made  them  into  copies  of  verses,  which  the 
beautiful  old  lady  never  would  see,  nor  if  she  saw  could 
read — verses  for  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine  and  the  North 
British  Courant. 


CHAPTEK    LIT. 

THE  house  of  Cosmo's  residence  was  not  a  great  enough 
house  to  boast  a  regular  portiere  or  concierge.  A  little 
cobbler,  who  lived  in  an  odd  little  ever-open  room,  on  the 
ground  floor,  was  the  real  renter  and  landlord  of  the  much- 
divided  dwelling  place.  He  and  his  old  wife  lived  and 
labored  without  change  or  extension  in  this  one  apartment, 
which  answered  for  all  purposes,  and  in  which  Baptiste's 


THE    LAIKD     OF    2STOELAW.  261 

scraps  of  leather  contended  for  preeminence  of  odor  over 
Margot's  pot  au  feu;  and  it  was  here  that  the  lodgers 
hung  up  the  keys  of  their  respective  chambers,  and  where 
the  letters  and  messages  of  the  little  community  were  left. 
Cameron  and  Cosmo  were  both  very  friendly  with  Baptiste. 
They  understood  him  but  imperfectly,  and  Jie,  for  his  part, 
kept  up  a  continual  chuckle  behind  his  sleeve  over  the 
blunders  of  les  Anglais.  But  as  they  laughed  at  each  other 
mutually,  both  were  contented,  and  kept  their  complacence. 
Cosmo  had  found  out  by  guess  or  inference,  he  could  not 
quite  tell  how,  that  madame  in  the  second  floor  opposite, 
with  the  invalid  daughter,  was  the  owner  of  Baptiste's 
house — a  fact  which  made  the  cobbler's  little  room  very  at 
tractive  to  the  lad,  as  it  was  easy  to  invent  questions,  direct 
or  indirect,  about  the  beautiful  old  lady.  One  morning, 
Baptiste  looked  up,  with  a  smirk,  from  his  board,  as  he  bid 
good-day  to  his  young  lodger.  He  had  news  to  tell. 

"  You  shall  now  have  your  wish/'  said  Baptiste ;  "  Ma 
dame  has  been  asking  Margot  about  the  young  Englishman. 
Madame  takes  interest  in  les  Anglais.  You  shall  go  to 
present  yourself,  and  make  your  homage  when  her  poor 
daughter  is  better.  She  loves  your  country.  Madame  is 
Anglais  herself." 

"  Is  she  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  eagerly ;  "  but  I  am  not  English, 
unfortunately,"  added  the  lad,  with  a  jealous  nationality. 
"I  am  a  Scotsman,  Baptiste;  madame  will  no  longer  wish 
to  see  me." 

"Eh,  bien!"  said  Baptiste,  "I  know  not  much  of  your 
differences,  you  islanders — but  madame  is  Ecossais.  Yes, 
I  know  it.  It  was  so  said  when  Monsieur  Jean  brought 
home  his  bride.  Ah,  was  she  not  beautiful  ?  too  pretty  for 
the  peace  of  the  young  man  and  the  ladies ;  they  made  poor 
Monsieur  Jean  jealous,  and  he  took  her  away." 

"  Is  that  long  ago  ?"  asked  Cosmo. 

"It  was  the  year  that  Margot's  cousin,  Camille,  was 
drawn  in  the  conscription,"  said  Baptiste,  smiling  to  him 
self  at  his  own  private  recollections.  "It  is  twenty  years 
since.  But  madame  was  lovely !  So  poor  Monsieur  Jean 
became  jealous  and  carried  her  away.  They  went,  I  know 
not  where,  to  the  end  of  the  world.  In  the  meantime  the 
old  gentleman  died.  He  was  of  the  old  regime — he  was  of 
good  blood— but  he  was  poor — he  had  but  this  house  here 


262  THE    LAIBD    OF    NOEL  AW. 

and  that  other  to  leave  to  his  son — fragments,  monsieur, 
fragments,  crumbs  out  of  the  hands  of  the  Revolution;  and 
Monsieur  Jean  was  gay  and  of  a  great  spirit.  He  was  not 
a  bourgeois  to  go  to  become  rich.  The  money  dropped 
through  his  fine  fingers.  He  came  back,  let  me  see,  but 
three  years  ago.  He  was  a  gentleman,  he  was  a  noble, 
with  but  a  thousand  francs  of  rent.  He  did  not  do  any 
thing.  Madame  sat  at  the  window  and  worked,  with  her 
pretty  white  hands.  Eh,  Men  !  what  shall  you  say  then  ? 
she  loved  him — nothing  was  hard  to  her.  He  was  made  to 
be  loved,  this  poor  Monsieur  Jean." 

"It  is  easy  to  say  so — but  he  could  not  have  deserved 
such  a  wife,"  cried  Cosmo,  with  a  boy's  indignation ;  "  he 
ought  to  have  toiled  for  her  rather,  night  and  day." 

"Ah,  monsieur  is  young,"  said  Baptiste,  with  a  half 
satirical  smile  and  shrug  of  his  stooping  French  shoulders. 
"We  know  better  when  we  have  been  married  twenty 
years.  Monsieur  Jean  was  not  made  to  toil,  neither  night 
nor  day ;  but  he  loved  madame  still,  and  was  jealous  of  her 
— he  was  a  beau  garpon  himself  to  his  last  days." 

"  Jealous !"  Cosmo  was  horrified ;  "  you  speak  very  lightly, 
Baptiste,"  said  the  boy,  angrily,  "  but  that  is  worst  of  all— 
a  lady  so  beautiful,  so  good — it  is  enough  to  see  her  to 
know  how  good  she  is — the  man  deserved  to  be  shot !" 

"  Nay,  nay,"  cried  Baptiste,  laughing,  "  monsieur  does 
not  understand  the  ways  of  women — it  pleased  madame — 
they  love  to  know  their  power,  and  to  hear  other  people 
know  it ;  all  the  women  are  so.  Madame  loved  him  all  the 
better  for  being  a  little — just  a  little  afraid  of  her  beauty. 
But  he  did  not  live  long — poor  Monsieur  Jean !" 

"  I  hope  she  was  very  glad  to  be  rid  of  such  a  fellow," 
cried  Cosmo,  who  was  highly  indignant  at  the  deficient  hus 
band  of  his  beautiful  old  lady.  Baptiste  rubbed  the  corner 
of  his  own  eye  rather  hard  with  his  knuckle.  The  cobbler 
had  a  little  sentiment  lingering  in  his  ancient  bosom  for  the 
admired  of  his  youth. 

"But  he  had  an  air  noble — a  great  spirit,"  cried  Bap 
tiste.  "  But  madame  loved  him !  She  wept — all  St.  Ouen 
wept,  monsieur — and  he  was  the  last  of  an  old  race.  Now 
there  are  only  the  women,  and  madame  herself  is  a  foreigner 
and  a  stranger,  and  knows  not  our  traditions.  Ah,  it  is  a 
great  change  for  the  house  of  Roche  de  St.  Martin !  If  you 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW.  263 

will  believe  it,  monsieur,  madame  herself  is  called  by  the 
common  people  nothing  but  Madame  Roche  !" 

"And  that  is  very  sad,  Baptiste,"  said  Cosmo,  with  a 
smile.  Baptiste  smiled  too ;  the  cobbler  was  not  particu 
larly  sincere  in  his  aristocratical  regrets,  but,  with  the 
mingled  wit  and  sentiment  of  his  country,  was  sufficiently 
ready  to  perceive  either  the  ludicrous  or  the  pathetic  aspect 
of  the  decayed  family. 

Cosmo,  however,  changed  his  tone  with  the  most  capri 
cious  haste.  Whether  she  was  a  plain  Madame  Roche,  or 
a  noble  lady,  it  did  not  matter  much  to  the  stranger.  She 
was  at  the  present  moment,  in  her  lovely  age  and  mother 
hood,  the  lady  of  Cosmo's  dreams,  and  ridicule  could  not 
come  near  her.  She  was  sacred  to  every  idea  that  was 
most  reverential  and  full  of  honor. 

"  And  she  is  a  widow,  now,  and  has  a  sick  daughter  to 
take  care  of,"  said  Cosmo,  meditatively;  "strange  how 
some  people  in  the  world  have  always  some  burden  upon 
them.  Had  she  no  one  to  take  care  of  her  ?" 

"  If  monsieur  means  that,"  said  Baptiste,  with  a  comical 
smile,  "  I  do  not  doubt  madame  might  have  married  again." 

"  Married — she !  how  dare  you  say  so,  Baptiste,"  cried 
the  lad,  coloring  high  in  indignation  ;  "  it  is  profane  ! — it  is 
sacrilege ! — but  she  has  only  this  invalid  daughter  to  watch 
and  labor  for — nothing  more  ?" 

"  Yes — it  is  but  a  sad  life,"  said  Baptiste  ;  "  many  a  labor 
ing  woman,  as  I  tell  Margot,  has  less  to  do  with  her  hard 
fingers  than  has  madame  with  those  pretty  white  hands — 
one  and  another  all  her  life  to  lean  upon  her,  and  now,  alas ! 
poor  Mademoiselle  Marie !" 

The  cobbler  looked  as  if  something  more  than  mere  com 
passion  for  her  illness  moved  this  last  exclamation,  but 
Cosmo  was  not  very  much  interested  about  Mademoiselle 
Marie,  who  lay  always  on  the  sofa,  and,  hidden  in  the  dim 
ness  of  the  chamber,  looked  older  than  her  mother,  as  the 
lad  fancied.  He  went  away  from  Baptiste,  however,  with 
his  mind  very  full  of  Madame  Roche.  For  a  home-born 
youth  like  himself,  so  long  accustomed  to  the  family  roof 
and  his  mother's  rule  and  company,  he  had  been  a  long  time 
now  totally  out  of  domestic  usages  and  female  society — 
longer  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  before — he  was 
flattered  to  think  that  his  beautiful  old  lady  had  noticed 


264  THE    LAIED     OP    NOEL  AW. 

him,  and  an  affectionate  chivalrous  sentiment  touched 
Cosmo's  mind  with  unusual  pleasure.  He  loved  to  imagine 
to  himself  the  delicate  womanly  fireside,  lighted  up  by  a 
smile  which  might  remind  him  of  his  mother's,  yet  would 
be  more  refined  and  captivating  than  the  familiar  looks  of 
the  Mistress.  He  thought  of  himself  as  something  between 
a  son  and  a  champion,  tenderly  reverent  and  full  of  affec 
tionate  admiration.  No  idea  of  Mademoiselle  Marie,  nor  of 
any  other  younger  person  with  whom  it  might  be  possible 
to  fall  in  love,  brought  Cosmo's  imagination  down  to  the 
vulgar  level.  He  felt  as  a  lad  feels  who  has  been  brought 
up  under  the  shadow  of  a  mother  heartily  loved  and 
honored.  It  was  still  a  mother  he  was  dreaming  about ; 
but  the  delicate  old  beauty  of  his  old  lady  added  an  indefin 
able  charm  to  the  impulse  of  affectionate  respect  which 
animated  Cosmo.  It  made  him  a  great  deal  more  pleased 
and  proud  to  think  she  had  noticed  him,  and  to  anticipate 
perhaps  an  invitation  to  her  very  presence.  It  made  him 
think  as  much  about  her  to-day  as  though  she  had  been  a  girl, 
and  he  her  lover.  The  sentiment  warmed  the  lad's  heart. 
He  was  wandering  around  the  noble  old  cathedral  later 
in  the  day,  when  the  February  sun  slanted  upon  all  the 
fretted  work  of  its  pinnacles  and  niches,  and  playing  in, 
with  an  ineffectual  effort,  was  lost  in  the  glorious  gloom  of 
the  sculptured  porch.  Cosmo  pleased  himself  straying 
about  this  place,  not  that  he  knew  any  thing  about  it,  or  was 
at  all  enlightened  as  to  its  peculiar  beauties — but  simply 
because  it  moved  him  with  a  sense  of  perfectness  and  glory, 
such  as,  perhaps,  few  other  human  works  ever  impress  so 
deeply.  As  he  went  along,  he  came  suddenly  upon  the 
object  of  his  thoughts.  Madame  Roche — as  Baptiste 
lamented  to  think  the  common  people  called  her — was  in 
an  animated  little  discussion  with  a  market-woman,  then 
returning  home,  about  a  certain  little  bundle  of  sweet  herbs 
which  remained  in  her  almost  empty  basket.  Cosmo 
hurried  past,  shyly  afraid  to  be  supposed  listening ;  but  he 
could  hear  that  there  was  something  said  about  an  omelette 
for  Mademoiselle  Marie,  which  decided  the  inclinations  of 
his  old  lady.  He  could  not  help  standing  at  the  corner  of 
the  lane  to  watch  her  when  she  had  passed.  She  put  the 
herbs  into  her  own  little  light  basket,  and  was  moving 
away  towards  her  house,  when  something  called  her  atten- 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NOBLAW.  265 

tion  behind,  and  she  looked  back.  She  could  not  but  per 
ceive  Cosmo,  lingering  shy  and  conscious  at  the  corner,  nor 
could  she  but  guess  that  it  was  herself  whom  the  lad  had 
been  looking  at.  She  smiled  to  him,  and  made  him  a  little 
courtesy,  and  waved  her  hand  with  a  kindly,  half-amused 
gesture  of  recognition,  which  completed  the  confusion  ot 
Cosmo,  who  had  scarcely  self-possession  enough  left  to  take 
off  his  hat.  Then  the  old  lady  went  on,  and  he  remained 
watching  her.  What  a  step  she  had ! — so  simple,  so  straight 
forward,  so  unconscious,  full  of  a  natural  grace  which  no 
training  could  have  given.  It  occurred  to  Cosmo  for  a 
moment,  that  he  had  seen  but  one  person  walk  like  Madame 
Roche.  Was  it  a  gift  universal  to  French  women  ? — but 
then  she  was  not  a  Frenchwoman — she  was  English — nay — 
hurrah!  better  still — she  was  his  own  countrywoman. 
Cosmo  had  not  taken  time  to  think  of  this  last  particular 
before — his  eye  brightened  with  a  still  more  affectionate 
sentiment,  his  imagination  quickened  with  new  ground  to 
go  upon.  He  could  not  help  plunging  into  the  unknown 
story  with  quite  a  zest  and  fascination.  Perhaps  the  little 
romance  which  the  lad  wove  incontinently,  was  not  far  from 
the  truth.  The  young  heir  of  the  house  of  Roche  de  St. 
Martin,  whom  the  Revolution  left  barely  "  lord  of  his 
presence  and  no  land  beside" — the  stately  old  French 
father,  perhaps  an  emigre — the  young  man  wandering  about 
the  free  British  soil,  captivated  by  the  lovely  Scottish  face, 
bringing  his  bride  here,  only  to  carry  her  away  again,  a  gay, 
volatile,  mercurial,  unreliable  Frenchman.  Then  those 
wanderings  over  half  the  world,  those  distresses,  and  labors, 
and  cares  which  had  not  been  able  to  take  the  sweet  bloom 
from  her  cheek,  nor  that  elastic  grace  from  her  step — and 
now  here  she  was,  a  poor  widow  with  a  sick  daughter, 
bargaining  under  the  shadow  of  St.  Ouen  for  the  sweet 
herbs  for  Marie's  omelette.  Cosmo's  young  heart  rose 
against  the  incongruities  of  fortune.  She  who  should  have 
been  a  fairy  princess,  with  all  the  world  at  her  feet,  how 
had  she  carried  that  beautiful  face  unwithered  and  unfaded, 
that  smile  undimmed,  that  step  unburthened,  through  all 
the  years  and  the  sorrows  of  her  heavy  life  ? 

It  seemed  very  hard  to  tell — a  wonderful  special  provision 
of  Providence  to  keep  fresh  the  bloom  which  it  had  made  ; 
and  Cosmo  went  home,  thinking  with  enthusiasm  that  per- 
12 


266  THE     LAIRD     OF     NOKLAW. 

haps  it  was  wrong  to  grudge  all  the  poverty  and  trials 
which  doubtless  she  had  made  beautiful  and  lighted  up  by 
her  presence  among  them.  Cosmo  was  very  near  writing 
some  verses  on  the  subject.  It  was  a  very  captivating  sub 
ject  to  a  poet  of  his  years — but  blushed  and  restrained  him 
self  with  a  truer  feeling,  and  only  went  to  rest  that  night 
wondering  how  poor  Mademoiselle  Marie  liked  her  omelette, 
and  whether  Madame  Roche,  the  next  time  they  met,  would 
recognize  him  again. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

THE  next  day  Cameron  came  up  stairs  to  Cosmo's  room, 
where  the  lad  was  writing  by  the  window,  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand  and  rather  a  comical  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Here  is  for  you,  Cosmo,"  said  Cameron.  "  The  like  of 
me  does  not  captivate  ladies.  Macgregor  and  I  must  make 
you  our  reverence.  We  never  would  have  got  this  invita 
tion  but  for  your  sake." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  rising  eagerly,  with  a  sudden 
blush,  and  already  more  than  guessing,  as  he  leaned  for 
ward  to  see  it,  what  the  communication  was.  It  was  a 
note  from  Madame  Roche,  oddly,  yet  prettily,  worded, 
with  a  fragrance  of  French  idiom  in  its  English,  which  made 
it  quite  captivating  to  Cosmo,  who  was  highly  fantastical, 
and  would  not  have  been  quite  contented  to  find  his  beauti 
ful  old  lady  writing  a  matter-of-fact  epistle  like  other  people. 
It  was  an  invitation  to  "  her  countrymen"  to  take  a  cup  of 
tea  with  her  on  the  following  evening.  She  had  heard  from 
Baptiste  and  his  wife  that  they  were  English  travelers,  and 
loved  to  hear  the  speech  of  her  own  country,  though  she 
had  grown  unfamiliar  with  it,  and  therewith  she  signed  her 
name,  "  Mary  Roche  de  St.  Martin,"  in  a  hand  which  was 
somewhat  stiff  and  old-fashioned,  yet  refined.  Cosmo  was 
greatly  pleased.  His  face  glowed  with  surprised  gratifica 
tion  ;  he  was  glad  to  have  his  old  heroine  come  up  so  en 
tirely  to  his  lancy,  and  delighted  to  think  of  seeing  and 
knowing  her,  close  at  hand  in  her  own  home. 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW.  267 

"  You  will  go  ?"  he  said,  eagerly. 

Cameron  laughed — even,  if  truth  must  be  told,  the  grave 
Highlander  blushed  a  little.  He  was  totally  unused  to  the 
society  of  women ;  he  was  a  little  excited  by  the  idea  of 
making  friends  in  this  little  foreign  town,  and  already  looked 
foward  with  no  small  amount  of  expectation  to  Madame 
Roche's  modest  tea-drinking.  But  he  did  not  like  to  betray 
his  pleasure ;  he  turned  half  away,  as  he  answered  : — 

"  For  your  sake,  you  know,  laddie — Macgregor  and  I 
would  have  had  little  chance  by  ourselves — yes,  we'll  go," 
and  went  off  to  write  a  very  stiff  and  elaborate  reply,  in 
the  concoction  of  which  Cameron  found  it  more  difficult  to 
satisfy  himself  than  he  had  ever  been  before  all  his  life.  It 
was  finished, how  ever,  and  dispatched  at  last.  That  day 
ended,  the  fated  evening  came.  The  Highland  student 
never  made  nor  attempted  so  careful  a  toilette — he,  too,  had 
found  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Cosmo's  beautiful  old  lady, 
and  of  the  pale,  fragile  daughter,  who  went  out  once  a 
week  to  drive  in  the  little  carriage.  Mademoiselle  Marie, 
whom  Cosmo  had  scarcely  noticed,  looked  to  Cameron  like 
one  of  the  tender  virgin  martyrs  of  those  old  pictures 
which  had  impressed  his  uncommunicative  imagination  with 
out  much  increasing  his  knowledge.  He  had  watched  her, 
half  lifted,  half  helped  into  the  little  carriage,  with  pity 
and  interest  greater  than  any  one  knew  of.  He  was  a 
strong  man,  unconscious  in  his  own  person  of  what  illness 
was — a  reserved,  solitary,  self-contained  hermit,  totally 
ignorant  of  womankind,  save  such  as  his  old  mother  in  her 
Highland  cottage,  or  the  kind,  homely  landlady  in  the  High 
Street  whose  anxiety  for  his  comfort  sometimes  offended 
him  as  curiosity.  A  lady,  young,  tender,  and  gentle — a 
woman  of  romance,  appealing  unconsciously  to  all  the  pro 
tecting  and  supporting  impulses  of  his  manhood,  had  never 
once  been  placed  before  in  Cameron's  way. 

So  Cosmo  and  his  friend,  with  an  interest  and  excitement 
almost  equal,  crossed  the  little  street  of  St.  Ouen,  towards 
Madame  Roche's  second  floor,  in  the  early  darkness  of  the 
February  night,  feeling  more  reverence,  respect,  and  en 
thusiasm  than  young  courtiers  going  to  be  presented  to  a 
queen.  As  for  their  companion,  Cameron's  pupil,  he  was 
the  only  unconcerned  individual  of  the  little  party.  He 
was  not  unaccustomed  to  the  society  of  ladies — Madame 


268  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

Roche  and  her  daughter  had  no  influence  on  his  imagina 
tion  ;  he  went  over  the  way  with  the  most  entire  compla 
cency,  and  not  a  romantical  sentiment  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  him ;  he  was  pleased  enough  to  see  new  faces,  and 
share  his  own  agreeable  society  with  some  one  else  for  the 
evening,  and  he  meant  to  talk  of  Italy  and  pictures  and  aston 
ish  these  humble  people,  by  way  of  practice  when  he  should 
reach  home — Macgregor  was  not  going  to  any  enchanted 
palace — he  only  picked  his  steps  over  the  causeway  of  the 
little  street  of  St.  Ouen,  directing  his  way  towards  Madame 
Roche's  second  floor. 

This  chamber  of  audience  was  a  small  room,  partly  French 
and  party  English  in  its  aspect ;  the  gilded  clock  and  mir 
ror  over  the  mantel-piece — the  marble  table  at  the  side  of  the 
room — the  cold  polished  edge  of  floor  on  which  Cameron's 
unwary  footsteps  almost  slid — the  pretty  lamp  on  the  table, 
and  the  white  maze  of  curtains  artistically  disposed  at  the 
window,  and  looped  with  pink  ribbons,  were  all  indigenous 
to  the  soil ;  but  the  square  of  thick  Turkey  carpet — the 
little  open  tire-place,  where  a  wood  tire  burned  and  crackled 
merrily,  the  warm-colored  cover  on  the  table,  where  stood 
Madame  Roche's  pretty  tea  equipage,  were  home-like  and 
"  comfortable"  as  insular  heart  could  wish  to  see.  On  a 
sofa,  drawn  close  to  the  tire-place,  half  sat,  half  reclined,  the 
invalid  daughter.  She  was  very  pale,  with  eyes  so  blue, 
and  mild,  and  tender,  that  it  was  impossible  to  meet  their 
gentle  glance  without  a  rising  sympathy,  even  though  it 
might  be  impossible  to  tell  what  that  sympathy  was  for. 
She  was  dressed — the  young  men,  of  course,  could  not  tell 
how — in  some  invalid  dress,  so  soft,  so  flowing,  so  seemly, 
that  Cameron,  who  was  as  ignorant  as  a  savage  of  all  the 
graces  of  the  toilette,  could  not  sufficiently  admire  the  per 
fect  gracefulness  of  those  most  delicate  womanly  robes,  which 
seemed  somehow  to  belong  to,  and  form  part  of,  this  fair, 
pale,  fragile  creature,  whose  whole  existence  seemed  to  be 
one  of  patience  and  suffering.  Madame  Roche  herself  sat 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  She  was  not  in  widow's 
dress,  though  she  had  not  been  many  years  a  widow.  She 
wore  a  white  lace  cap,  with  spotless,  tilmy  white  ribbons, 
under  which  her  fair  hair,  largely  mixed  with  silver,  was 
braided  in  soft  bands,  which  had  lost  nothing  of  their  gloss 
or  luxuriance.  Her  dress  was  black  satin,  soft  and  glisten- 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOEL  AW.  269 

ing — there  was  no  color  at  all  about  her  habiliments,  nothing 
but  soft  white  and  black.  She  did  not  look  younger  than 
she  was,  nor  like  any  thing  but  herself.  She  was  not  a  well- 
preserved,  carefully  got-up  beauty.  There  were  wrinkles 
in  her  sweet  old  face,  as  well  as  silver  in  her  hair.  Not 
withstanding,  she  sat  there  triumphant,  in  the  real  loveli 
ness  which  she  could  not  help  and  for  which  she  made  no 
effort,  with  her  beautiful  blue  eyes,  her  soft  lips,  her  rose 
cheek,  wrhich  through  its  wrinkles  was  as  sweet  and  velvety 
as  an  infant's,  her  pretty  white  hands  and  rosy  finger  tips. 
She  was  not  unconscious  either  of  her  rare  gift — but  bore 
it  with  a  familiar  grace  as  she  had  borne  it  for  fifty  years. 
Madame  Roche  had  been  beautiful  all  her  life — she  did  not 
wonder  nor  feel  confused  to  know  that  she  was  beautiful 
now. 

And  she  received  them,  singular  to  say,  in  a  manner  which 
did  not  in  the  slightest  degree  detract  from  Cosmo's  poetic 
admiration,  asking  familiar  questions  about  their  names,  and 
where,  and  how,  and  why  they  traveled,  with  the  kindly  in 
terest  of  an  old  lady,  and  with  the  same  delightful  junction 
of  English  speech  with  an  occasional  French  idiom,  which 
had  charmed  the  lad  in  her  note.  Cameron  dropped  shyly 
into  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  inclined  his  ear, 
with  a  conscious  color  on  his  face,  to  the  low  voice  of  the 
invalid,  who,  though  a  little  surprised,  took  polite  pains  to 
talk  to  him,  while  Cosmo  as  shyly,  but  not  with  quite  so 
much  awkwardness,  took  up  his  position  by  the  side  of 
Madame  Roche.  She  made  no  remark,  except  a  kindly 
smile  and  bow,  when  she  heard  the  names  of  Cameron  and 
Macgregor,  but  when  Cosmo's  was  named  to  her  she  turned 
round  to  him  with  a  special  and  particular  kindness  ol 
regard. 

"Ah!  Livingstone  ! 'V  she  said;  "I  had  a  friend  once 
called  by  that  name,"  and  Madame  Roche  made  a  little 
pause  of  remembrance,  with  a  smile  and  a  half  sigh,  and  that 
look  of  mingled  amusement,  complacence,  gratitude,  and 
regret,  with  which  an  old  lady  like  herself  remembers  the 
name  of  an  old  lover.  Then  sire  returned  quietly  to  her 
tea-making.  She  did  not  notice  Macgregor  much,  save  as 
needful  politeness  demanded,  and  she  looked  with  a  little 
smiling  surprise  into  the  shadow  where  Cameron  had  placed 
himself  by  the  side  of  her  daughter,  but  her  own  attention 


J270  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

was  principally  given  to  Cosmo,  who  brightened  under  it, 
and  grew  shyly  confidential,  as  was  to  be  looked  for  at  his 
age. 

"  I  have  seen  you  at  your  window,"  said  Madame  Roche. 
u  I  said  to  Marie,  this  young  man,  so  modest,  so  ingenuous, 
who  steals  back  when  we  come  to  the  window,  I  think  he 
must  be  my  countryman.  I  knew  it  by  your  looks — all  of 
you,  and  this  gentleman,  your  tutor — ah,  he  is  not  at  all  like 
a  Frenchman.  He  has  a  little  forest  on  his  cheeks  and  none 
on  his  chin,  my  child — that  is  not  like  what  we  see  at  St. 
Ouen." 

The  old  lady's  laugh  was  so  merry  that  Cosmo  could  not 
help  joining  in  it — "He  is  my  dear  friend,"  said  Cosmo, 
blushing  to  find  himself  use  the  adjective,  yet  using  it  with 
shy  enthusiasm ;  "  but  he  is  only  Macgregor's  tutor  not 
mine." 

"  Indeed  !  and  who  then  takes  care  of  you  ?"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  Ah,  you  are  old  enough — you  can  guard  yourself — 
is  it  so  ?  Yet  I  know  you  have  a  good  mother  at  home." 

"  I  have  indeed  ;  but,  madame,  how  do  you  know?"  cried 
Cosmo,  in  amazement. 

"  Because  her  son's  face  tells  me  so,"  cried  Madame 
Roche,  with  her  beautiful  smile.  "  I  know  a  mother's  son, 
my  child.  I  know  you  would  not  have  looked  down  upon 
an  old  woman  and  her  poor  daughter  so  kindly  but  for  your 
mother  at  home  ;  and  your  good  friend,  who  goes  to  talk  to 
my  poor  Marie — has  he  then  a  sick  sister,  whom  he  thinks 
upon  when  he  sees  my  poor  wounded  dove?" 

Cosmo  was  a  little  puzzled  ;  he  did  not  know  what  an 
swer  to  make — he  could  not  quite  understand,  himself  this 
entirely  new  aspect  of  his  friend's  character.  "  Cameron  is 
a  very  good  fellow,"  he  said,  with  perplexity ;  but  Cosmo 
did  not  himself  perceive  how,  to  prove  himself  a  good  fel 
low,  it  was  needful  for  Cameron  to  pay  such  close  reveren 
tial  regard  to  the  invalid  on  her  sofa,  whom  he  seemed  now 
endeavoring  to  amuse  by  an  account  of  their  travels.  The 
reserved  and  grave  Highlander  warmed  as  he  spoke.  He 
was  talking  of  Venice  on  »her  seas,  and  Rome  on  her  hills, 
while  Marie  leaned  back  on  her  pillows,  with  a  faint  flush  upon 
her  delicate  cheek,  following  his  narrative  with  little  assent 
ing  gestures  of  her  thin  white  hand,  and  motions  of  her 
head.  She  was  not  beautiful  like  her  mother,  but  she  was 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  271 

so  fragile,  so  tender,  so  delicate,  with  a  shadowy  white  vail 
on  her  head  like  a  cap,  fastened  with  a  soft  pink  ribbon, 
which  somehow  made  her  invalid  delicacy  of  complexion  all 
the  more  noticeable,  that  Cosmo  could  not  help  smiling  and 
wondering  at  the  contrast  between  her  and  the  black,  dark, 
strong-featured  face  which  bent  towards  her.  No — Came 
ron  had  no  sick  sister — perhaps  the  grave  undemonstrative 
student  might  even  have  smiled  at  Madame  Roche's  pretty 
French  sentiment  about  her  wounded  dove ;  yet  Cameron, 
who  knew  nothing  about  women,  and  had  confessed  to 
Cosmo  long  ago  how  little  of  the  universal  benevolence  ot 
love  he  found  himself  capable  of,  was  exerting  himselt 
entirely  out  of  his  usual  fashion,  with  an  awkward  earnest 
ness  of  sympathy  whicn  touched  Cosmo's  heart,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  poor  sick  Marie. 

"  We,  too,  have  wandered  far,  but  not  where  you  have 
been,"  said  Madame  Roche.  "  We  do  not  know  your 
beautiful  Rome  and  Venice — we  know  only  the  wilderness, 
I  and  my  Marie.  Ah,  you  would  not  suppose  it,  to  find  us 
safe  in  St.  Ouen  ;  but  we  have  been  at — what  do  you  call 
it? — the  other  side  of  the  world — down,  down  below  here, 
where  summer  comes  at  Christmas — ah  !  in  the  Antipodes." 

"  And  I  would  we  were  there  now,  mamma,"  said  Marie, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  child  ! — yes,  we  were  there,  gentlemen," 
said  Madame  Roche.  "  We  have  been  great  travelers — we 
have  been  in  America — we  were  savages  for  a  long  time — 
we  were  lost  to  all  the  world ;  no  one  knew  of  us — they 
forgot  me  in  my  country  altogether ;  and  even  my  poor 
Jean— they  scarce  remembered  Mm  in  St.  Ouen.  When 
we  came  back,  we  were  like  people  who  drop  from  the  skies. 
Ah,  it  was  strange !  His  father  and  his  friends  were  dead, 
and  me — it  was  never  but  a  place  of  strangers  to  me — this 
town.  I  have  not  been  in  my  country — not  for  twenty 
years ;  yet  I  sometimes  think  I  should  wish  to  look  at  it  ere 
I  die,  but  for  Marie." 

"  But  the  change  might  be  of  use  to  her  health,"  said 
Cameron,  eagerly.  "  It  often  is  so.  Motion,  and  air,  and 
novelty,  of  themselves  do  a  great  deal.  Should  you  not 
try  ?" 

"Ah,  I  should  travel  with  joy,"  said  Marie,  clasping  her 
white,  thin  hand,  "  but  not  to  Scotland,  monsieur.  Your 


272  THE    LAIRD     OP    NORLAW. 

fogs  and  your  rains  would  steal  my  little  life  that  I  have.  I 
should  go  to  the  woods — to  the  great  plains — to  the  country 
that  you  call  savage  and  a  wilderness ;  and  there,  mamma, 
if  you  would  but  go  you  should  no  longer  have  to  say — 
'Poor  Marie!'" 

"  And  that  is — where  ?"  said  Cameron,  bending  forward 
to  the  bright  sick  eyes,  with  an  extraordinary  emotion  and 
earnestness.  His  look  startled  Cosmo.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said,  "Tell  me  but  where,  and  I  will  carry  you  away  whoso 
ever  opposes  !"  The  Highlandman  almost  turned  his  back 
upon  Madame  Roche.  This  sick  and  weak  Marie  was  op 
pressed  and  thwarted  in  her  fancy.  Cameron  looked  at  her 
in  his  strong,  independent  manhood,  with  an  unspeakable 
compassion  and  tenderness.  It  was  in  his  heart  to  have 
lifted  her  up  with  his  strong  arras  and  carried  her  to  the 
place  she  longed  for,  wherever  it  was — that  was  the  imme 
diate  impulse  upon  him,  and  it  was  so  new  and  so  strange 
that  it  seemed  to  refresh  and  expand  his  whole  heart.  But 
Marie  sank  back  upon  her  pillows  with  a  little  movement  of 
fatigue,  perhaps  of  momentary  pettishness,  and  only  her 
mother  spoke  in  quite  another  strain. 

"  You  do  not  know  my  country,  my  child,"  said  Madame 
Roche.  "  I  have  another  little  daughter  who  loves  it.  Ah, 
I  think  some  day  we  shall  go  to  see  the  old  hills  and  the  old 
trees ;  but  every  one  forgets  me  there,  and  to  say  truth,  I 
also  forget,"  said  the  old  lady,  smiling.  "  I  think  I  shall 
scarcely  know  my  own  tongue  presently.  Will  you  come 
and  teach  me  English  over  again  ?" 

"  You  should  say  Scotch,  madam — it  is  all  he  knows," 
said  Cameron,  smiling  at  Cosmo,  to  whom  she  had  turned. 
It  was  an  affectionate  look  on  both  sides,  and  the  boy  blush 
ed  as  he  met  first  the  beautiful  eyes  of  his  lovely  old  lady, 
and  then  the  kind  glance  of  his  friend.  He  stammered 
something  about  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  in  Scotland, 
and  then  blushed  for  the  common-place.  He  was  too  young 
to  remain  unmoved  between  two  pair  of  eyes,  both  turned  so 
kindly  upon  him. 

"  He  is  his  mother's  son,  is  he  not  ?"  said  Madame  Roche, 
patting  Cosmo's  arm  lightly  with  her  pretty  lingers.  "  I 
knew  his  name  when  I  was  young.  I  had  a  friend  called  by 
it.  You  shall  come  and  talk  to  me  of  all  you  love — and  you 
and  I  together,  we  will  persuade  Marie." 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  273 

Cameron  glanced  as  she  spoke,  with  a  keen  momentary 
jealous  pang,  from  the  handsome  lad  opposite  to  him,  to  the 
invalid  on  the  sofa.  But  Marie  was  older  than  Cosmo — a 
whole  world  apart,  out  of  his  way,  uninteresting  to  the  boy 
as  she  lay  back  on  her  cushions,  with  her  half-shut  eyes  and 
her  delicate  face.  It  was  strange  to  think  how  strong  and 
personal  was  this  compassion,  the  growth  of  a  day,  in  the 
Highlander's  stern  nature  and  uncommunicating  heart. 


CHAPTEE   LIV. 

THE  days  glided  on  imperceptibly  over  the  travelers  as 
they  rested  in  St.  Ouen — rested  longer  than  there  seemed 
any  occasion  for  resting,  and  with  so  little  inducement  that 
Macgregor  began  to  grow  restive,  and  even  Cosmo  wonder 
ed  ;  Cameron  was  no  longer  the  same.  The  fiery  heart  of 
the  Highlander  was  moved  within  him  beyond  all  power  of 
self-restraint.  He  was  calm  enough  externally  by  the  ne 
cessity  of  his  nature,  which  forbade  demonstration — but 
within,  the  fountains  were  breaking,  the  ice  melting,  a  fiery 
and  fervid  activity  taking  the  place  of  the  long  quiescence 
of  his  mind.  He  neither  understood  it  himself  nor  reasoned 
upon  it.  He  yielded  because  he  could  not  help  yielding. 
An  arbitrary,  imperious  impulse,  had  taken  possession  of 
him,  strengthening  itself  in  his  own  strength  and  force,  and 
taking  into  consideration  no  possibility  of  obstacles.  His  big, 
strong  heart  yearned  over  the  tender  weakness  which  could 
not  help  itself — he  could  think  of  nothing  but  of  taking  it 
up  in  his  powerful  arms  and  carrying  it  into  safety.  It  was 
the  first  awakening  of  his  native  passionate  fervor — he  could 
acknowledge  nothing,  perceive  nothing  to  stand  in  the  way. 
He  was  as  unreasonable  and  arbitrary  as  the  merest  boy — 
more  so,  indeed,  for  boys  do  not  know  emotions  so  stormy 
and  violent.  It  had  an  extraordinary  effect  altogether  upon 
this  grave,  reserved,  toil-worn  man  ;  sometimes  he  was  ca 
pricious,  impatient,  and  fitful  in  his  temper — at  other  times 
more  tender  than  a  woman — often  half  ashamed  of  himself 

12* 


274  THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW. 

— and  only  clear  about  one  thing  as  it  seemed,  whica  was, 
that  he  would  not  go  away. 

Another  point  he  was  angrily  jealous  upon  ;  he  neither 
lingered  in  Baptiste's  room  himself,  nor,  if  he  could  possibly 
prevent  it,  permitted  Cosmo  to  do  so.  He  would  have  no 
questions  asked,  no  gossiping  entered  into  about  Madame 
Roche.  "  These  ladies  should  be  sacred  to  us — what  they 
wish  us  to  know  they  will  tell  us,"  said  Cameron  almost 
haughtily,  on  one  occasion,  when  he  interrupted  a  conversa 
tion  between  the  cobbler  and  his  young  companion.  Cos 
mo  was  half  disposed  to  resent  at  once  the  interference,  and 
the  supposition  that  he  himself  would  gossip  about  any  one, 
or  acquire  information  by  such  undignified  means — but  the 
serious  feeling  in  his  friend's  face,  almost  stern  in  its  earnest 
ness,  impressed  the  lad.  It  was  evidently  of  tenfold  impor 
tance  to  Cameron  more  than  to  himself,  much  as  he  was  in 
terested  in  his  beautiful  old  lady.  Cosmo  yielded  with  but 
little  demonstration  of  impatience  and  wonder,  half-guessing, 
yet  wholly  unable  to  comprehend  what  this  could  mean. 

Another  day,  when  Cosmo  sat  by  his  little  window  in  the 
corner,  to  which  he  had  been  shy  of  going  since  he  knew 
Madame  Roche,  but  which  had  still  a  great  attraction  for 
him,  Cameron  entered  his  room  hurriedly  and  found  him  at 
his  post.  The  Highlandman  laid  his  powerful  hand  roughly 
on  the  lad's  shoulder,  and  drew  him  away,  almost  in  violence. 
"  How  dare  ye  pry  upon  them  ?"  he  cried,  with  excitement ; 
"  should  not  their  home,  be  sacred,  at  least  ?"  Almost  a 
quarrel  ensued,  for  Cosmo  struggled  in  this  strong  grasp, 
and  asserted  his  independence  indignantly.  He  pry  upon 
any  one !  The  lad  was  furious  at  the  accusation,  and  ready 
to  abjure  forever  and  in  a  moment  the  friend  who  judged 
him  so  unjustly  ;  and  had  it  not  been  that  Cameron  himself 
melted  into  an  incomprehensible  caprice  of  softness,  there 
must  have  been  an  open  breach  and  separation.  Even  then, 
Cosmo  could  scarcely  get  over  it ;  he  kept  away  from  his 
window  proudly,  was  haughty  to  his  companions,  passed 
Baptiste  without  the  civility  of  a  recognition,  and  even,  in 
the  strength  of  his  ill-used  and  injured  condition,  would  not 
go  to  see  Madame  Roche.  Out  of  this  sullen  lit  the  lad  was 
awakened  by  seeing  Cameron  secretly  selecting  with  his  un 
couth  hands  such  early  flowers  as  were  to  be  found  in  the 
market  of  St.  Ouen,  and  giving  shy,  private  orders  about 


THE     LAIRD     OF     NOEL  AW.  275 

others,  more  rare  and  delicate,  which  were  to  be  sent  to 
Madame  Roche,  in  her  second  floor.  Cosmo  was  very  much 
perplexed,  and  did  not  comprehend  it,  any  more  than  he 
comprehended  why  it  was  that  the  Highlandman,  without 
motive  or  object,  and  in  face  of  the  protestations  of  his  pu 
pil,  persisted  in  lingering  here  in  St.  Ouen. 

Thus  a  week  passed — a  fortnight,  and  no  period  was  yet 
assigned  for  their  stay.  They  became  familiar  with  that 
pretty,  little,  half  French,  half  English  apartment,  where 
poor  Marie  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  her  mother  sat  working  by 
the  window.  Madame  Roche  was  always  kind,  and  had  a 
smile  for  them  all.  Marie  was  sometimes  vivacious,  some 
times  fatigued,  sometimes  broke  forth  in  little  outbursts  of 
opposition  to  mamma,  who  was  always  tender  and  forbear 
ing  to  her!  sometimes  Cosmo  thought  the  gentle  invalid 
was  even  peevish,  lying  back  among  her  cushions,  with  her 
half  closed  eyes,  taking  no  notice  of  any  one.  This  poor 
Marie  was  not  only  weak  in  frame — she  was  unsatisfied, 
discontented,  and  had  "something  on  her  mind."  She 
started  into  sudden  effusions  of  longing  and  weariness,  with 
eager  wishes  to  go  away  somewhere,  and  anticipations  of 
being  well,  if  mamma  would  but  consent,  which  Madame 
Roche  quietly  evaded,  and,  during  which,  Cameron  sat 
gazing  at  her  with  all  his  heart  inquiring  in  his  eyes,  where  ? 
But  Marie  showed  no  inclination  to  make  a  confidant  of  her 
mother's  countryman.  She  listened  to  him  with  a  languid 
interest,  gave  him  a  partial  attention,  smiled  faintly  when 
her  mother  thanked  him  for  the  flowers  he  sent,  but  treated 
all  these  marks  of  Cameron's  "  interest"  in  herself  with  a 
fatal  and  total  indifference,  which  the  Highlandman  alone 
either  did  not  or  would  not  perceive.  It  did  not  even 
appear  that  Marie  contemplated  the  possibility  of  any 
special  reference  to  herself  in  the  stranger's  courtesies. 
She  treated  them  all  alike,  paying  no  great  regard  to  any 
of  the  three.  She  was  amiable,  gentle,  mild  in  her  manners, 
and  pleasant  in  her  speech ;  but  throughout  all,  it  was  her 
self  and  her  own  burdens,  whatever  these  might  be,  that 
Marie  was  thinking  of.  Perhaps  they  were  enough  to 
occupy  the  poor  tender  spirit  so  closely  confined  within 
those  four  walls.  Cosmo  did  not  know — but  his  sympa 
thies  were  with  the  bright  old  mother,  whose  beautiful  eyes 
always  smiled,  who  seemed  to  have  no  time  to  spend  in 


276  THP.    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

impatience  or  discontent,  and  whose  perpetual  care  was 
lavished  on  her  daughter,  whether  Marie  was  pleased  or  no. 

Madame  Roche,  it  would  appear,  was  not  too  sensitive — 
her  husband,  who  loved  and  was  jealous  of  her,  and  who 
died  and  left  her  a  widow,  had  not  broken  her  heart ; 
neither  could  her  child,  though  she  was  ill  and  peevish,  and 
not  very  grateful.  Perhaps  Cosmo  would  rather,  in  his 
secret  spirit,  have  preferred  to  see  his  beautiful  old  lady, 
after  all  her  hard  life  and  troubles,  and  with  still  so  many 
cares  surrounding  her,  show  greater  symptoms  of  heart 
break,  but  Madame  Roche  only  went  on  working  and 
smiling,  and  saying  kind  words,  with  an  invincible  patience, 
which  was  the  patience  of  a  natural  temper,  and  not  of  ex 
alted  principle.  She  could  not  help  her  sweetness  and 
affectionate  disposition  any  more  than  she  could  help  the 
beauty  which  was  as  faithful  to  her  in  age  as  in  youth.  She 
was  kind  even  to  Macgregor,  who  was  totally  indifferent  to 
her  kindness;  perhaps  she  might  be  as  kind  to  the  next 
wandering  party  of  travelers  who  were  thrown  in  her  way. 
Cosmo  would  not  allow  himself  to  believe  so,  yet,  perhaps, 
it  was  true. 

And  in  the  meantime  Macgregor  grumbled,  and  wrote 
discontented  letters  home ;  and  even  Cosmo  could  give  no 
reason  to  himself  for  their  stay  in  St.  Ouen,  save  Madame 
Roche  and  her  daughter — a  reason  which  he  certainly 
would  not  state  to  the  Mistress,  who  began  to  be  impatient 
for  her  boy's  return.  Cameron  had  no  letters  to  write — no 
thoughts  to  distract  him  from  the  one  overpowering  thought 
which  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind.  The  arbitrary 
fancy,  absolute  and  not  to  be  questioned,  that  his  own 
errand  in  the  little  Norman  town  was  to  restore  liberty, 
health,  content,  and  comfort  to  Marie  Roche  de  St.  Martin. 
He  felt  he  could  do  it,  as  his  big  heart  expanded  over 
Madame  Roche's  "  wounded  dove" — and  Cameron,  on  the 
verge  of  middle  age,  experienced  by  privations  and  hard 
ships,  fell  into  the  very  absoluteness  of  a  boy's  delusion. 
He  did  not  even  take  into  account  that,  upon  another 
capricious,  willful,  human  heart  depended  all  his  power  over 
the  future  he  dreamed  of— he  only  knew  that  he  could  do 
it,  and  therefore  would,  though  all  the  world  stood  in  his 
way.  Alas,  poor  dreamer!  the  world  gave  itself  no  trouble 
whatever  on  the  subject,  and  had  no  malice  against  him, 


THE    LATKD     OF     NOEL  AW.  277 

nor  doom  of  evil  for  Marie.  So  he  went  on  with  his  impe 
rious  determination,  little  witting  of  any  obstacle  before 
him  which  could  be  still  more  imperious  and  absolute  than 
he. 


CHAPTER    LV. 

ON  one  of  these  days  Cameron  came  again  to  Cosmo 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand.  His  look  was  very  different  now 
— it  was  grave,  resolute,  determined,  as  of  a  man  on  the 
verge  of  a  new  life.  He  showed  the  letter  to  his  young 
companion.  It  was  from  Macgregor's  father,  intimating  his 
wish  that  they  should  return  immediately,  and  expressing  a  f 
little  surprise  to  hear  that  they  should  have  remained  so 
long  in  St.  Ouen.  Cameron  crushed  it  up  in  his  hand  when 
it  was  returned  to  him ;  a  gesture  not  so  much  of  anger  as 
of  high  excitement  powerfully  restrained. 

"  We  must  go,  then,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Cosmo ;  but  the 
lad  looked  up  rather  doubtfully  and  anxiously  in  his  friend's 
face — for  Cameron  did  not  look  like  a  man  obedient,  who 
was  ready  to  submit  to  a  recall. 

"  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow,"  said  the  Highlander ;  "  yes 
— it  is  time — I  don't  resent  what  this  man  says — he  is  per 
fectly  right.  I  will  go  or  I  will  not  go  to-morrow." 

What  did  this  mean  ?  for  the  "  will  not  go"  was  a  great 
deal  more  than  a  passive  negative.  It  meant — not  a  con 
tinued  dallying  in  St.  Ouen — it  meant  all  that  Cameron 
imagined  in  that  great  new  torrent  of  hopes,  and  loves,  and 
purposes,  which  he  now  called  life.  Then  he  went  to 
Cosmo's  window  and  glanced  out  for  a  moment ;  then  he 
returned  with  a  deep,  almost  angry  flush  on  his  face, 
muttering  something  about  "  never  alone," — then  he  thrust 
his  arm  into  Cosmo's,  and  bade  him  come  along. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Madame  Roche,"  cried  Cameron, 
with  a  certain  recklessness  of  tone.  "  Come — you're  always 
welcome  there — and  four  is  better  company  than  three." 

It  was  no  little  risk  to  put  Cosmo's  temper  to — but  he 
yielded,  though  he  was  somewhat  piqued  by  the  address, 
feeling  an  interest  and  anxiety  for  something  about  to  hap- 


278  THE     LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

pen,  which  he  could  not  perfectly  define.  They  found 
Madame  Roche  alone,  seated  by  the  window  working,  as 
usual — but  Marie  was  not  there.  The  old  lady  received 
them  graciously  and  kindly,  as  was  her  wont.  She  answered 
to  Cameron's  inquiries  that  Marie's  headache  was  more  vio 
lent  than  usual,  and  that  she  was  lying  down.  Poor  Marie !  she 
was  very  delicate;  she  suffered  a  great  deal,  the  dear  child! 

"Invalids  have  sometimes  a  kind  of  inspiration  as  to  what 
will  cure  them,"  said  Cameron,  steadily  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Madame  Roche,  "  why  will  you  not  let  her  go  where  she 
wishes  to  go  ?  Where  is  it  ?  I  should  think  the  trial 
worth  more  than  fatigue,  more  than  labor,  ay — if  man  had 
more  to  give — more  even  than  life !" 

Madame  Roche  looked  up  at  him  suddenly,  with  a 
strange  surprise  in  her  eyes — a  painful,  anxious,  terrified 
wonder,  which  was  quite  inexplicable  to  Cosmo. 

"Alas,  poor  child  !"  she  said  hurriedly,  and  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  would  grudge  neither  fatigue  nor  labor  for  my  Marie  ; 
but  it  is  vain.  So  you  are  going  away  from  St.  Ouen  ?  ah, 
yes,  I  know — I  hear  every  thing.  I  saw  your  young  Mon 
sieur  Macgregor  half  an  hour  ago ;  he  said  letters  had  come, 
and  you  were  going.  We  shall  grieve  when  you  are  gone, 
and  we  shall  not  forget  you,  neither  I  nor  my  Marie." 

Cameron's  face  changed  ;  a  sweetness,  an  elevation,  a 
tender  emotion,  quite  unusual  to  those  strong  features,  came 
over  them. 

"  It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  shall  go,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  and  strangely  softened  voice. 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  Marie  know  ?" 

And  once  more  he  glanced  round  the  room,  and  at  her 
vacant  sofa,  with  a  tender  reverence  and  respect  which 
touched  Cosmo  to  the  heart,  and  filled  the  lad  with  under 
standing  at  once  and  pity.  Could  he  suppose  that  it  was 
hearing  of  this  that  aggravated  Marie's  headache?  could 
he  delude  himself  with  the  thought  that  she  was  moved  by 
the  prospect  of  his  departure  ?  Poor  Cameron  !  Madame 
Roche  was  looking  at  him  too  with  a  strange  anxiety,  trying 
to  read  his  softened  and  eloquent  face.  The  old  lady  paused 
with  an  embarrassed  and  hesitating  perplexity,  looking  from 
Cosmo  to  Cameron,  from  Cameron  back  again  to  Cosmo. 
The  lad  thought  she  asked  an  explanation  from  him  with 
her  eyes,  but  Cosmo  had  no  explanation  to  give. 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  279 

"  My  friend,"  said  Madame  Roche,  at  last,  trying  to  re 
cover  her  smile,  but  speaking  with  an  evident  distress  which 
she  endeavored  in  vain  to  conceal — "  you  must  not  say 
Mademoiselle  Marie.  The  people  do  so,  for  they  have 
known  her  as  a  girl ;  but  they  all  know  her  story,  poor 
child !  I  fancied  you  must  have  heard  it  from  Baptiste  or 
Margot,  who  love  to  talk.  Ah  !  have  they  been  so  prudent  ? 
— it  is  strange." 

Madame  Roche  paused  again,  as  if  to  take  breath.  Cos 
mo  instinctively  and  silently  moved  his  chair  further  away, 
and  only  looked  on,  a  deeply-moved  spectator,  not  an  actor 
in  the  scene.  Cameron  did  not  say  a  word,  but  he  grasped 
the  little  marble  table  with  a  hand  as  cold  as  itself,  and 
looked  at  Madame  Roche  with  the  face  of  a  man  whose 
tongue  clove  to  his  mouth,  and  who  could  not  have  spoken 
for  his  life.  She,  trembling  a  little,  afraid  to  show  her  emo 
tion,  half  frightened  at  the  look  of  the  person  she  addressed, 
proceeded,  after  her  pause,  with  a  rapid,  interrupted  voice. 

"  My  poor,  tender  Marie — poor  child !"  said  the  mother. 
"Alas !  she  is  no  more  mademoiselle — she  is  married  ;  she 
was  married  years  ago,  when  she  was  too  young.  Ah,  it 
has  wrung  my  heart !"  cried  the  old  lady,  speaking  more 
freely  when  her  great  announcement  was  made ;  "  for  her 
husband  loves  her  no  longer  ;  yet  my  poor  child  would  seek 
him  over  the  world  if  she  might.  Strange — strange,  is  it 
not  ?  that  there  should  be  one  most  dear  to  her  who  does 
not  love  Marie  ?" 

But  Cameron  took  no  notice  of  this  appeal.  He  still  sat 
gazing  at  her,  with  his  blank,  dark  face,  and  lips  that  were 
parched  and  motionless.  She  was  full  of  pity,  of  distress, 
of  anxiety  for  him ;  she  went  on  speaking  words  which  only 
echoed  idly  on  his  ear,  and  which  even  Cosmo  could  not 
attend  to,  expatiating  in  a  breathless,  agitated  wray,  to  cover 
his  emotion  and  to  gain  a  little  time,  upon  the  troubles  of 
Marie's  lot,  upon  the  desertion  of  her  husband,  her  broken 
health  and  broken  heart.  In  the  midst  of  it,  Cameron  rose 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  The  trembling  mother  of 
Marie  took  it,  rising  up  to  receive  his  farewell.  She  would 
have  made  a  hundred  anxious  apologies  for  the  involuntary 
and  unconscious  deceit  from  which  he  had  suffered,  but 
dared  not.  He  shocks  hands  with  her  hastily,  with  an  air 
which  could  not  endure  speaking  to. 


280  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

"  I  shall  leave  St.  Ouen  so  soon,  that  I  may  not  be  able  to 
see  you  again,"  said  Cameron,  with  a  forcible  and  forced 
steadiness  which  put  all  her  trembling  compassion  to  flight; 
and  he  looked  full  in  her  eyes,  as  if  to  dare  her  suspicions. 
"  If  I  can  not,  farewell,  and  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  I 
can  but  leave  my  best  wishes  for — Mademoiselle  Marie." 

Before  Cosmo  could  follow  him — before  another  word 
could  be  said,  Cameron  was  gone.  They  could  hear  him 
descending  the  stair,  with  an  echoing  footstep,  as  they  stood 
together,  the  old  lady  and  the  lad,  in  mutual  distress  and 
embarrassment.  Then  Madame  Roche  turned  to  Cosmo, 
took  his  hand,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Could  I  tell  ?"  cried  Marie's  mother — "  alas,  my  child  ! 
could  I  think  that  your  tutor,  so  grave,  so  wise,  would  be 
thus  moved  ?  I  am  beside  myself!  I  am  grieved  beyond 
measure !  Alas,  what  shall  I  do  ? — a  good  man  is  in  distress, 
and  I  am  the  cause !" 

"  Nay,  it  is  not  your  fault,  madame,"  said  Cosmo ;  "  it's 
no  one's  fault— a  mistake,  a  blunder,  an  accident ;  poor 
Cameron  !"  and  the  lad  had  enough  ado  to  preserve  his 
manhood  and  keep  in  his  own  tears. 

Then  Madame  Roche  made  him  sit  down  by  her  and  tell 
her  all  about  his  friend.  Cosmo  would  rather  have  gone  away 
to  follow  Cameron,  and  know  his  wishes  immediately  about 
leaving  St.  Ouen,  but  was  persuaded,  without  much  diffi 
culty,  that  it  was  kinder  to  leave  the  Highlander  alone  in 
the  first  shock  of  the  discovery  he  had  made.  And  Madame 
Roche  was  much  interested  in  the  story  of  the  student, 
whose  holiday  had  ended  so  sadly.  She  wished,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  that  she  could  do  any  thing  to  comfort,  any 
thing  to  help  him  on.  And  in  turn  she  told  the  story  of  her 
own  family  to  Cosmo ;  how  Marie's  husband  had  turned  out 
a  vagabond,  and'worthless ;  how  he  had  deserted  his  girlish 
wife  in  the  beginning  of  her  illness,  leaving  her  alone  and 
unattended,  at  a  distance  even  from  her  mother  ;  how  they 
had  heard  nothing  of  him  for  three  years — yet  how,  not 
withstanding  all,  the  poor  Marie  wept"  for  him  constantly, 
and  tried  to  persuade  her  mother  to  set  out  on  the  hopeless 
enterprise  of  finding  him  again. 

"My  poor  child!"  said  Madame  Roche ;  "she  forgets 
every  thing,  my  friend,  but  that  she  loves  him.  Ah,  it  is 
natural  to  us  women ;  we  remember  that,  and  we  remember 
nothing  more." 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW.  981 

Cosmo  could  not  help  a  momentary  spark  of  indignation. 
He  thought  Marie  very  selfish  and  cold-hearted,  and  could 
not  forgive  her  his  friend's  heart-break : — 

"Mademoiselle  Marie  should  not  forget  you^  he  said. 

Though  he  dealt  with  such  phenomena  occasionally  in  his 
verses,  and  made  good  sport  with  them,  like  other  young 
poets,  Cosmo  was,  notwithstanding,  too  natural  and  sensi 
ble,  not  to  pause  with  a  momentary  wonder  over  this  strange 
paradox  and  contradiction  of  events.  To  think  of  such  a 
man  as  Cameron  losing  his  wits  and  his  heart  for  love  of 
this  weak  and  perverse  woman,  who  vexed  her  mother's 
heart  with  perpetual  pining  for  the. husband  who  had  ill-used 
and  deserted  her  !  How  strange  it  was  ! 

"Marie  does  not  forget  me,  my  child;  she  is  not  to 
blame,"  said  Madame  Roche ;  "  it  is  nature ;  do  not  I  also 
know  it  ?  Ah,  I  was  undutiful  myself!  I  loved  my  poor 
Jean  better  than  my  father ;  but  I  have  a  little  one  who  is 
very  fond  of  me ;  she  is  too  young  for  lovers ;  she  thinks  of 
nothing  but  to  make  a  home  in  my  own  country  for  Marie 
and  me.  My  poor  Mrrie !  she  can  not  bear  to  go  away 
from  St.  Ouen,  lest  he  should  come  back  to  seek  her ;  she 
will  either  go  to  seek  him,  or  stay ;  and  so  I  can  not  go  to 
Desiree  nor  to  my  own  country.  Yet,  perhaps,  if  Marie 
would  but  be  persuaded  !  My  little  Desiree  is  in  Scotland. 
They  think  much  of  her  where  she  is.  It  is  all  very  strange ; 
she  is  in  a  house  which  -once  was  home  to  me  when  I  was 
young.  I  think  it  strange  my  child  should  be  there." 

"  Desiree  ?"  repeated  Cosmo,  gazing  at  his  beautiful  old 
lady  with  awakened  curiosity.  He  remembered  so  well  the 
pretty  little  figure  whose  bearing,  different  as  they  were 
otherwise,  was  like  that  of  Madame  Roche.  He  looked  in 
her  face,  anxious,  but  unable,  to  trace  any  resemblance. 
Desiree !  Could  it  be  Joanna's  Desiree — the  heroine  of  the 
broken  windows — she  who  was  at  Melmar  ?  The  lad  grew 
excited  as  he  repeated  the  name — he  felt  as  though  he  held 
in  his  hand  the  clue  to  some  secret — what  could  it  be  ? 

"  Do  you  know  the  name  V  Ah,  my  little  one  was  a  true 
Desiree,"  said  Madame  Roche ;  "  she  came  when  the  others 
were  taken  away — she  was  my  comforter.  Nay,  my  friend 
— she  wrote  to  me  of  one  of  your  name  !  One — ah,  look  at 
me  ! — one  who  was  son  of  my  old  friend.  My  child,  let  me 
see  your  face — can  it  be  you  who  are  son  of  Patrick,  my 


282  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

good  cousin  ?  What ! — is  it  then  possible  ?  Are  you  the 
young  Livingstone  of  Norlaw  ?" 

Cosmo  rose  up  in  great  excitement,  withdrawing  from  the 
half  embrace  into  which  Madame  Roche  seemed  disposed 
to  take  him  ;  the  lad's  heart  bounded  with  an  audible  throb, 
rising  to  his  throat : — 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?  Did  you.  know  my  father  ?  Was  he 
your  cousin  ?"  he  cried,  with  an  increasing  emotion.  "  He 
was  Patrick  Livingstone,  of  Norlaw,  a  kinsman  of  the  old 
Huntleys  ;  and  you — you — tell  me  !  You  are  Mary  of  Mel- 
mar  !  I  know  it !  I  have  found  you  !  Oh,  father  !  I  have 
done  my  work  at  last." 

The  lad's  voice  broke  into  a  hoarse  cry — he  had  no  words 
to  express  himself  further,  as  he  stood  before  her  with  burn 
ing  cheeks  and  a  beating  heart,  holding  out  his  hands  in  ap 
peal  and  in  triumph.  He  had  found  her !  he  could  not 
doubt,  he  could  not  hesitate — gazing  into  that  beautiful  old 
face,  the  whole  country-side  seemed  to  throng  about  him 
with  a  clamorous  testimony.  All  those  unanimous  witness 
es  who  had  told  him  of  her  beauty,  the  little  giant  at  the 
smithy  to  whom  her  foot  rung  "  like  siller  bells,"  the  old  wo 
man  who  remembered  her  face  "  like  a  May  morning,"  rush 
ed  into  Cosmo's  memory  as  though  they  had  been  present 
by  his  side.  He  cried  out  again  with  a  vehement  self-assur 
ance  and  certainty,  "  You  are  Mary  of  Melmar !"  He  kiss 
ed  her  hand  as  if  it  had  been  the  hand  of  a  queen — he  for 
got  all  his  previous  trouble  and  sympathy — he  had  found 
her !  his  search  had  not  been  made  in  vain. 

"  I  am  Mary  Huntley,  the  daughter  of  Melmar,"  said  the 
old  lady,  with  her  beautiful  smile.  "  Yes,  my  child,  it  is 
true — I  left  my  father  and  my  home  for  the  sake  of  my  poor 
Jean.  Ah,  he  was  very  fond  of  me !  I  am  not  sorry ;  but 
you  sought  me  ? — did  you  seek  me  ? — that  is  strange,  that 
is  kind ;  I  know  not  why  you  should  seek  me.  My  child,  do 
not  bring  me  into  any  more  trouble — tell  me  why  you 
sought  for  me  ?" 

u  I  sought  you  as  my  fathei  sought  you  !"  cried  Cosmo ; 
"  as  he  charged  us  all  to  seeif  you  when  he  died.  I  sought 
you,  because  you  have  been  wronged.  Come  home  with 
me,  madame.  I  thank  God  for  Huntley  that  he  never  had  it ! 
— I  knew  I  should  find  you !  It  is  not  for  any  trouble.  It 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  283 

is  because  Melmar — Melmar  itself— your  father's  house — is      f 
yours !" 

"  Melmar — my  father's  house — where  my  Desiree  is  now  ? 
— nay,  my  friend,  you  dream,"  said  the  old  lady,  trying  to 
smile,  yet  growing  pale ;  she  did  not  comprehend  it — she 
returned  upon  what  he  said  about  his  father ;  she  was  touch 
ed  to  tears  to  think  that  Norlaw  had  sought  for  her — that 
she  had  not  been  forgotten — that  he  himself,  a  young  cham 
pion,  had  come  even  here  with  the  thought  of  finding  her  ; 
—but  Melmar,  Melmar,  her  father's  house !  The  old  Mary 
of  Melmar,  who  had  fled  from  that  house  and  been  disin 
herited,  could  not  receive  this  strange  idea — Melmar !  the 
word  died  on  her  lip  as  the  voice  of  Marie  called  her  from 
an  inner  chamber.  She  rose  with  the  promptness  of  habit, 
resuming  her  tender  mother-smile,  and  answering  without  a 
pause.  She  only  waved  her  hand  to  Cosmo  as  the  boy  left 
her  to  her  immediate  duties.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  she 
found  it  difficult  to  take  up  the  thread  of  connection  between 
that  life  in  which  she  herself  had  been  an  only  child,  and 
this  in  which  she  was  Marie's  nursing  mother.  They  were 
strangely  unlike  indeed. 


CHAPTEK   LVI. 

COSMO  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  out  of  the  gate  of  Mad 
ame  Roche's  house,  much  too  greatly  excited  to  think  of  re 
turning  to  his  little  room.  The  discovery  was  so  sudden 
and  so  extraordinary  that  the  lad  was  quite  unable  to  com 
pose  his  excitement  or  collect  his  thoughts.  Strange  enough, 
though  Mary  of  Melmar  had  been  so  much  in  his  mind,  he 
had  never  once,  until  this  day,  associated  her  in  the  smallest 
degree  with  the  beautiful  old  lady  of  St.  Ouen.  When  he 
began  to  think  of  all  the  circumstances,  he  could  not  account 
to  himself  for  his  extraordinary  slowness  of  perception.  At 
least  a  score  of  other  people,  totally  unlikely  and  dissimilar, 
had  roused  Cosmo's  hopes  upon  his  journey.  Scarcely  a 
place  they  had  been  in  which  did  not  afford  the  imaginative 
youth  a  glimpse  somewhere  of  some  one  who  might  be  the 
heroine ;  yet  here  he  had  been  living  almost  by  her  side 


284  THE    LAIEP     OF    NOKLATV. 

without  a  suspicion,  until  a  sudden  confidence,  given  in  the 
simplest  and  most  natural  manner,  disclosed  her  in  a  mo 
ment — Mary  of  Melmar !  He  had  known  she  must  be  old 
— he  had  supposed  she  must  have  children — but  it  was 
strange,  overpowering,  a  wild  and  sudden  bewilderment,  to 
find  in  her  the  mother  of  Desiree  and  Marie. 

Cosmo  did  not  go  home  to  his  little  room — he  hurried 
along  the  narrow  streets  of  St.  Ouen,  carried  on  by  the  stress 
and  urgency  of  his  own  thoughts.  Then  he  emerged  upon 
the  river  side,  where  even  the  picturesque  and  various  scene 
before  him  failed  to  beguile  his  own  crowding  fancies.  He 
saw  without  seeing  the  river  boats,  moored  by  the  quay, 
the  Norman  fishermen  and  market-women,  the  high-gabled 
houses,  which  corresponded  so  pleasantly  with  those  high 
caps  and  characteristic  dresses,  the  whole  bright  animation 
and  foreign  coloring  of  the  scene.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  he 
saw  but  one  figure,  a  figure  which  somehow  belonged  to  it, 
and  took  individuality  and  tone  from  this  surrounding ; — 
Mary  of  Melmar  !  but  not  the  pensive,  tender  Mary  of  that 
sweet  Scottish  country-side,  with  all  its  streams  and  wood 
lands — not  a  Mary  to  be  dreamt  of  any  longer  on  the  leafy 
banks  of  Tyne,  or  amid  those  roofless  savage  wralls  of  the 
old  Strength  of  Norlaw.  With  an  unexpressed  cry  of  tri 
umph,  yet  an  untellable  thrill  of  disappointment,  the  lad 
hurried  along  those  sun-bright  banks  of  Seine.  It  was  this 
scene  she  belonged  to ;  the  quaint,  gray  Norman  town, 
with  its  irregular  roofs  and  gables,  its  cathedral  piling  up 
ward  to  a  fairy  apex  those  marvelous  pinnacles  and  towers, 
its  bright  provincial  costume  and  foreign  tints  of  color,  its 
river,  bright  with  heavy  picturesque  boats,  and  floating 
baths,  and  all  the  lively  life  of  a  French  urban  stream.  It 
was  not  that  meditative  breadth  of  country,  glorious  with 
the  purple  Eildons  and  brown  waters,  sweet  with  unseen 
birds  and  burns,  where  the  summer  silences  and  sounds 
were  alike  sacred,  and  where  the  old  strongholds  lay  at  rest 
like  old  warriors,  watching  the  peace  of  the  land.  No — she 
was  not  Mary  of  Melmar — she  was  Madame  Roche  de  St. 
Martin,  the  beautiful  old  lady  of  St.  Ouen. 

When  Cosmo's  thoughts  had  reached  this  point,  they 
were  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sight  of  Cameron,  standing 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  quay,  looking  steadily  down.  His 
remarkable  figure,  black  among  the  other  figures  on  that 


THE    LAIRD     OF     NOKLAW.  285 

picturesque  river-side — his  fixed,  dark  face,  looking  stern 
and  authoritative  as  a  face  in  profile  is  apt  to  look — his 
intense,  yet  idle  gaze  down  the  weather-stained,  timber- 
bound  face  of  the  river-pier,  startled  his  young  companion 
at  first  into  sudden  terror.  Cosmo  had,  till  this  moment, 
forgotten  Cameron.  His  friendship  and  sympathy  woke 
again,  with  a  touch  of  alarm  and  dread,  which  made  him 
sick.  Cameron  ! — religious,  enthusiastic,  a  servant  of  God 
as  he  was,  what  was /the  disappointed  man,  in  the  shock  ot 
his  personal  suffering,  about  to  do  ?  Cosmo  stood  behind, 
unseen,  watching  him.  The  lad  did  not  know  what  he 
feared,  and  knew  that  his  terror  was  irrational  and  foolish, 
but  still  could  not  perceive  without  a  pang  that  immovable 
figure,  gazing  down  into  the  running  river,  and  could  not 
imagine  but  with  trembling  what  might  be  in  Cameron's 
thoughts.  He  was  of  a  race  to  which  great  despairs  and 
calamities  were  congenial.  His  blood  was  fiery  Celtic 
blood,  the  tumultuous  pulses  of  the  mountaineer.  Cosmo 
felt  his  heart  beat  loud  in  his  ears  as  he  stood  watching. 
Just  then  one  of  the  women  he  had  been  in  the  habit  ot 
buying  flowers  from,  perceived  Cameron  and  went  up  to 
him  with  her  basket.  He  spoke  to  her,  listened  to  her,  with 
a  reckless  air,  which  aggravated  Cosmo's  unreasonable 
alarm ;  the  lad  even  heard  him  laugh  as  he  received  a 
pretty  bouquet  of  spring  flowers,  which  he  had  doubtless 
ordered  for  Marie.  The  woman,  went  away  after  receiving 
payment,  with  a  somewhat  doubtful  and  surprised  face. 
Then  Cameron  began  to  pull  the  pretty,  delicate  blossoms 
asunder,  and  let  them  fall  one  by  one  into  the  river — one 
by  one — then  as  the  number  lessened,  leaf  by  leaf,  scatter 
ing  them  out  of  his  fingers  with  an  apparent  determination 
of  destroying  the  whole,  quite  unconscious  of  the  wistful 
eyes  of  two  little  children  standing  by.  When  the  last 
petal  had  fallen  into  the  river,  and  was  swept  down  under 
the  dark  keel  of  one  of  the  boats,  the  Highlander  turned 
suddenly  away — so  suddenly,  indeed,  that  Cosmo  did  not 
discover  his  disappearance  till  he  had  passed  into  the  little 
crowd  which  hung  about  a  newly-arrived  vessel  lower  down 
the  quay ; — his  step  was  quick,  resolute,  and  straightforward 
— he  was  going  home. 

And  then  Cosmo,  brought  by  this  means  to  real  ground, 
once  more  began  to  think,  as  it  was  impossible  to  forbear 


286  THE     LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

thinking,  over  all  the  strange  possibilities  of  the  new  events 
which  had  startled  him  so  greatly.  If  Marie  had  not  been 
married — if  Cameron  had  wooed  her  and  won  her — if, 
strangest  chance  of  all,  it  had  thus  happened  that  the  poor 
Highland  student,  all  unwitting  of  his  fortune,  had  come  to 
be  master  of  Melrnar  !  As  he  speculated,  Cosmo  held  his 
breath,  with  a  sudden  and  natural  misgiving.  He  thought 
of  Huntley  in  Australia — his  own  generous,  tender-hearted 
brother.  Huntley,  who  meant  to  come  home  and  win 
Melmar,  and  who  already  looked  upon  himself  as  its  real 
master — Huntley,  whose  hopes  must  be  put  to  an  absolute 
and  instant  conclusion,  and  were  already  vain  as  the  fancies 
of  a  child.  He  thought  of  his  mother  at  home  in  Norlaw, 
thinking  of  the  future  which  waited  her  son,  and  refusing 
to  think  of  the  woman  who  had  inflicted  upon  her  the  great 
est  sufferings  of  her  life — he  thought  of  Patie,  who,  though 
much  less  concerned,  had  still  built  something  upon  the 
heirship  of  Melmar.  He  thought  of  the  sudden  change  to 
the  whole  family,  who,  more  or  less  unconsciously,  had 
reckoned  upon  this  background  of  possible  enrichment,  and 
had  borne  their  real  poverty  all  the  more  magnanimously, 
in  consideration  of  the  wealth  which  was  about  to  come— 
and  a  sudden  chill  came  to  the  lad's  heart.  Strange  perver 
sity  !  Cosmo  had  scorned  the  most  distant  idea  of  Huntley's 
heirship,  so  long  as  it  was  possible ;  but  now  that  it  was  no 
longer  possible,  a  compunction  struck  him.  This  prospect, 
which  cheered  Huntley  in  his  exile,  and  put  spirit  into  his 
labor — this,  which  encouraged  the  Mistress,  for  her  son's 
sake,  to  spare  and  to  toil — this,  which  even  furthered  the 
aims  of  Patie  in  his  Glasgow  foundery — this  it  was  his  un 
gracious  task  to  turn  into  vanity  and  foolishness.  His  step 
slackened  unconsciously,  his  spirit  fell,  a  natural  revulsion 
seized  him.  Madame  Roche  de  St.  Martin — the  poor  sick 
Marie,  who  loved  only  herself  and  her  worthless  French 
husband,  who  doubtless  now  would  find  his  way  back  to 
her,  and  make  himself  the  real  Lord  of  Melmar !  Alas, 
what  a  change  from  Cosmo's  picturesque  and  generous 
dreams  among  the  old  walls  of  Norlaw  !  When  he  thought 
of  the  vagabond  Frenchman,  whose  unknown  existence  had 
made  Cameron  miserable,  Cosmo  made  an  involuntary  ex 
clamation  of  opposition  and  disgust.  He  forgot  that  Mary 
of  Melmar  who  was  now  an  imaginary  and  unsubstantial 


THE    LAIED     OF     NOBLAW.  287 

phantom ;  he  even  forgot  the  beautiful  old  lady  who  had 
charmed  him  unawares — he  thought  only  of  the  French 
Marie  and  her  French  husband,  the  selfish  invalid  and  tne 
worthless  wanderer  who  had  deserted  her.  Beautiful 
Melmar,  among  its  woods  and  waters,  to  think  it  should  be 
bestowed  thus ! 

Then  Cosmo  went  on,  in  the  natural  current  of  his 
changed  thoughts,  to  think  of  the  present  family,  the  frank 
and  friendly  Joanna,  the  unknown  brother  whom  bowed 
Jaacob  respected  as  a  virtuoso,  and  who,  doubtless,  firmly 
believed  himself  the  heir — the  father  who,  though  an  enemy, 
was  still  a  homeborn  and  familiar  countryman.  Well,  that 
household  must  fall  suddenly  out  of  prosperity  and  wealth 
into  ruin — his  own  must  forego  at  once  a  well-warranted  and 
honorable  hope — all  to  enrich  a  family  of  St.  Ouen,  who 
knew  neither  Melmar  nor  Scotland,  and  perhaps  scorned 
them  both  !  And  it  was  all  Cosmo's  doing  ! — a  matter  de 
liberately  undertaken — a  heroical  pursuit  for  which  he  had 
quite  stepped  out  of  his  way !  The  lad  was  quite  as  high- 
minded,  generous,  even  romantic,  in  the  streets  of  St.  Ouen 
as  he  had  been  in  his  favorite  seat  of  meditation  among  the 
ruins  of  Norlaw ;  but  somehow,  at  this  moment,  when  he  had 
just  succeeded  in  his  enterprise,  he  could  not  manage  to  raise 
within  his  own  heart  all  the  elevated  sentiments  which  had 
inspired  it.  On  the  contrary,  he  went  slowly  along  to  hia 
lodgings,  where  he  should  have  to  communicate  the  news  to 
Cameron,  feeling  rather  crest-fallen  and  discomfited — not 
the  St.  George  restoring  a  disinherited  Una,  but  rather  the 
intermeddler  in  other  men's  matters,  who  gets  no  thanks  on 
any  hand.  To  tell  Cameron,  who  had  spent  the  whole 
fiery  torrent  of  that  love  which  it  was  his  nature  to  bestow, 
with  a  passionate  individual  fervor,  on  one  person  and  no 
more — upon  the  capricious  little  French  Marie,  who  could 
not  even  listen  to  its  tale !  Cosmo  grew  bitter  in  his 
thoughts  as  he  took  down  the  key  of  his  chamber  from  the 
wall  in  Baptiste's  room  and  received  a  little  note  which 
the  cobbler  handed  him,  and  went  very  softly  up  stairs. 
The  note  was  from  Madame  Roche,  but  Cosmo  was 
misanthropical,  and  did  not  care  about  it.  He  thought 
no  longer  of  Madame  Roche — he  thought  only  of  Marie, 
who  was  to  be  the  real  Mary  of  Melmar,  and  of  poor 


288  THE     LALRD    OF    NORLAW. 

Cameron  heart-broken,  and  Huntley  disappointed,  and  the 
French  vagabond  of  a  husband,  who  was  sure  to  come 
home. 


CHAPTEE    LYII. 

CAMERON  was  not  visible  until  the  evening,  when  he  sent 
for  Cosmo  to  his  own  room.  The  lad  obeyed  the  summons 
instantly ;  the  room  was  rather  a  large  one,  very  barely  fur 
nished,  without  any  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  with  no  fire  in 
the  stove.  It  was  dimly  lighted  by  one  candle,  which  threw 
the  apartment  into  a  general  twilight,  and  made  a  speck  of 
particular  illumination  on  the  table  where  it  stood,  and  by 
which  sat  Cameron,  with  his  pocket-book  and  Baptiste's  bill 
before  him.  He  was  very  pale,  and  somehow  it  seemed  im 
possible  to  see  his  face  otherwise  than  in  profile,  where  it 
looked  stern,  rigid,  and  immoveable  as  an  old  Roman's ; 
but  his  manner,  if  perhaps  a  little  graver,  was  otherwise 
exactly  as  usual.  Cosmo  was  at  a  loss  how  to  speak  to  him ; 
he  did  not  even  like  to  look  at  his  friend,  who,  however, 
showed  no  such  embarrassment  in  his  own  person. 

"  We  go  to-morrow,  Cosmo,"  said  Cameron,  rather  rap 
idly  ;  "  here  is  Baptiste's  bill  to  be  settled,  and  some  other 
things.  We'll  go  over  to  Dieppe  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning — every  thing  had  better  be  done  to  night." 

"  The  first  thing  in  the  morning !  but  I  am  afraid  I — I 
can  not  go,"  said  Cosmo,  hesitating  a  little. 

"  Why  ?"  Cameron  looked  up  at  him  imperiously — he 
was  not  in  a  humor  to  be  thwarted. 

"Because — not  that  I  don't  wish  to  go,  for  I  had  rather 
be  with  you,"  said  Cosmo — "  but  because  I  made  a  dis 
covery,  and  a  very  important  one,  to-day." 

"  Ah  ?"  said  Cameron,  with  a  smile  and  a  tone  of  dreary 
satire  ;  "  this  must  have  been  a  day  for  discoveries — what 
was  yours  ?" 

"It  was  about  Madame  Roche,"  said  Coemo,  with  hesita 
tion — he  was  afraid  to  broach  the  subject,  in  his  anxiety  for 
his  friend,  and  yet  it  must  be  told. 

"Just  so,"  said  Cameron,  with  the  same  smile j  "I  knew 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  289 

it  must  be  about  Madame  Roche — what  then  ?     I  suppose 
it  is  no  secret  ?  nothing  more  than  everybody  knew  ?" 

"Don't  speak  so  coldly,"  entreated  Cosmo,  with  irre- 
strainable  feeling ;  "  indeed  it  is  something  which  no  one 
could  have  dreamed  of;  Cameron,  she  is  Mary.  I  never 
guessed  or  supposed  it  until  to-day." 

Something  like  a  groan  burst  from  Cameron  in  spite  of 
himself.  "Ay,  she's  Mary!"  cried  the  Highlander,  with  a 
cry  of  fierce  despair  and  anguish  not  to  be  described,  "  but 
laddie,  what  is  that  to  you  ?" 

They  were  a  world  apart  as  they  sat  together  on  either 
side  of  that  little  table,  with  the  pale  little  light  between 
them — the  boy  in  the  awe  of  his  concern  and  sympathy — 
the  man  in  the  fiery  struggle  and  humiliation  of  his  man 
hood  wrung  to  the  heart.  Cosmo  did  not  venture  to  look 
up,  lest  the  very  glance — the  water  in  his  eyes,  might  irri 
tate  the  excited  mind  of  his  friend.  He  answered  softly, 
almost  humbly,  with  the  deep  imaginative  respect  of  youth. 

"She  is  Mary  of  Melmar,  Cameron — the  old  lady;  my 
father's  kinswoman  whom  he  was — fond  of — who  ran  away 
to  marry  a  Frenchman — who  is  the  heir  of  Melmar — Melmar 
which  was  to  be  Huntley's,  if  I  had  not  found  her.  It  can 
not  be  Huntley's  now  ;  and  I  must  stay  behind  to  complete 
the  discovery  I  have  made." 

Perhaps  Cosmo's  tone  was  not  remarkably  cheerful ;  the 
Highlander  looked  at  him  with  an  impatient  and  indignant 
glance. 

"  Why  should  it  be  Huntley's  when  it  is  hers  ?"  he  said, 
almost  angrily.  "  Would  you  grudge  her  rights  to  a  help 
less  woman  ?  you,  boy !  are  even  you  beguiled  when  your 
self  is  concerned  ?" 

"  You  are  unjust,"  said  Cosmo.  "  I  do  not  hesitate  a 
moment — I  have  done  nothing  to  make  any  one  doubt  me 
— nor  ever  will." 

The  lad  was  indignant  in  proportion  to  his  uneasiness  and 
discomfort  in  his  discovery,  but  Cameron  was  not  sufficiently 
at  rest  himself  to  see  through  the  natural  contradictions  of 
his  young  companion.  He  turned  away  from  him  with  the 
hall-conscious  gesture  of  a  sick  heart. 

"  I  am  unjust— I  believe  it,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  hu 
mility  ;  "  lands  and  silver  are  but  names  to  me.  I  am  like 
other  folk— I  can  be  liberal  with  what  I  have  not— ay,  more ! 

13 


290  THE    LAIRD     OP   NOKLAW. 

I  can  even  throw  away  my  own,"  continued  Cameron,  his 
strong  voice  trembling  between  real  emotion  and  a  bitter 
self-sarcasm,  "  so  that  nobody  should  be  the  better  for  the 
waste ;  that's  my  fortune.  Your  estate  will  be  of  use  to 
somebody — take  comfort,  callant ;  if  you  are  disappointed, 
there's  still  some  benefit  in  the  gift.  But  ye  might  give  all 
and  no  mortal  be  a  gainer — waste,  lavish,  pour  forth  every 
thing  ye  have,  and  them  the  gift  was  for,  if  ever  they  knew, 
be  the  worse  and  not  the  better  !  Ay !  that's  some  men's 
portion  in  this  life." 

Cosmo  did  not  venture  to  say  a  word — that  bitter  sense 
of  waste  and  prodigality,  the  whole  treasure  of  a  man's 
heart  poured  forth  in  vain,  and  worse  than  in  vain,  startled 
the  lad  with  a  momentary  vision  of  depths  into  which  he 
could  not  penetrate.  For  Cameron  was  not  a  boy,  strug 
gling  with  a  boy's  passion  of  disappointment  and  mortifica 
tion.  He  was  a  strong,  tenacious,  self-concentrated  man. 
He  had  made  a  useless,  vain,  unprofitable  holocaust,  which 
could  not  give  even  a  moment's  pleasure  to  the  beloved  of 
his  imagination,  for  whom  he  had  designed  to  do  every 
thing,  and  the  unacceptable  gift  returned  in  a  bitterness  un 
speakable  upon  the  giver's  heart.  Other  emotions,  even 
more  heavy  and  grievous,  struggled  also  within  him.  His 
old  scruples  against  leaving  his  garret  and  studies,  his  old 
feelings  of  guilt  in  deferring  voluntarily,  for  his  own  plea 
sure  and  comfort,  the  beginning  of  his  chosen  "  work./' 
came  back  upon  his  silent  Celtic  soul  in  a  torrent  of  remorse 
and  compunction,  which  he  could  not  and  would  not  confide 
to  any  one.  If  he  had  not  forsaken  the  labors  to  which 
God  had  called  him,  could  he  have  been  left  to  cast  his  own 
heart  away  after  this  desperate  and  useless  fashion  ?  With 
these  thoughts  his  fiery  spirit  consumed  itself.  Bitter  at  all 
times  must  be  the  revulsion  of  love  which  is  in  vain,  but 
this  was  bitterer  than  bitterness — a  useless,  unlovely,  unprofi 
table  sacrifice,  producing  nothing  save  humiliation  and  shame. 

"  I  see,  Cosmo,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause,  "  I  see  that 
you  can  not  leave  St.  Ouen  to-morrow.  Do  your  duty. 
You  were  fain  to  find  her,  and  you  have  found  her.  It 
might  be  but  a  boy's  impulse  of  generosity,  and  it  may 
bring  some  disappointment  with  it ;  but  it's  right,  my  lad  ! 
and  it's  something  to  succeed  in  what  you  attempt,  even 
though  you  do  get  a  dinnle  thereby  in  some  corner  of  your 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  291 

own  heart.  Never  fear  for  Huntley — if  he's  such  as  you  say, 
the  inheritance  of  the  widow  would  be  sacred  to  your  bro 
ther.  Now,  laddie,  fare  you  well.  I'm  going  back  to  my 
duty  that  I  have  forsaken.  Henceforth  you're  too  tender 
a  companion  for  the  like  of  me.  I've  lost — time,  and  such 
matters  that  you  have  and  to  spare  ;  you  and  I  are  on  differ 
ent  levels,  Cosmo ;  and  now,  my  boy,  fare  ye  well." 

"  Farewell  ?  you  don't  blame  me,  Cameron  ?"  cried 
Cosmo,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said. 

"  JSlame  you — for  what  ?"  said  the  other,  harshly,  and 
with  a  momentary  haughtiness ;  then  he  rose  and  laid  his 
hand  with  an  extreme  and  touching  kindness,  which  was 
almost  tender,  upon  Cosmo's  shoulder.  "  You've  been  like 
my  youth  to  me,  laddie,"  said  the  Highlandman ;  "  like  a 
morning's  dew  in  the  midst  of  drouth  ;  when  I  say  fare  ye 
well  I  mean  not  to  say  that  we're  parted  ;  but  I  must  not 
mint  any  more  at  the  pathways  of  your  life — mine  is  among 
the  rocks,  and  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  I  have  no  footing 
by  nature  among  your  primroses.  That  is  why  I  say — not 
to-morrow  in  the  daylight,  and  the  eyes  of  strangers,  but 
now  when  you  and  me  and  this  night  are  by  ourselves — fare 
ye  well,  laddie !  We're  ever  friends,  but  we're  no  more 
comrades — that  is  what  I  mean." 

"  And  that  is  hard,  Cameron,  to  me,"  said  Cosmo,  whose 
eyes  were  full. 

Cameron  made  no  answer  at  all  to  the  boy ;  he  went  to 
the  door  of  the  dim  room  with  him,  wrung  his  hand,  and 
said,  "  Good  night !"  Then,  while  the  lad  went  sadly  up 
the  noisy  stair-case,  the  man  turned  back  to  his  twilight 
apartment,  bare  and  solitary,  where  there  was  nothing 
familiar  and  belonging  to  himself,  save  his  pocket-book  and 
passport  upon  the  table,  and  Baptiste's  bill.  He  smiled  as 
he  took  that  up,  and  began  to  count  out  the  money  for  its 
payment ;  vulgar,  needful  business,  the  very  elements  of 
daily  necessity — these  are  the  best  immediate  styptics  for 
thrusts  in  the  heart. 

Cosmo,  to  whom  nothing  had  happened,  went  to  his 
apartment  perhaps  more  restlessly  miserable  than  Cameron, 
thinking  over  all  his  friend's  words,  and  aggravating  in  im 
agination  the  sadness  of  their  meaning.  The  lad  did  not 
care  to  read,  much  less  to  obey  the  call  of  Madame  Roche's 
pretty  note,  which  bade  him  come  and  tell  her  further  what 


292  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOKLAW. 

his  morning's  communication  meant.  For  this  night,  at 
least,  he  was  sick  of  Madame  Roche,  and  every  thing  con 
nected  with  her  name. 


CHAPTEE    LYIII. 

THE  morning  brought  feelings  a  little  more  endurable, 
yet  still,  very  far  from  pleasant.  Very  early,  while  it  was 
still  dark,  Cosmo  saw  his  companions  set  off  on  their  jour 
ney  home,  and  was  left  to  the  cold  dismal  consciousness  of  a 
solitary  day  just  beginning,  as  he  watched  the  lights  put 
out,  and  the  chill  gray  dawn  stealing  over  the  high  houses. 
The  first  ray  of  sunshine  glimmered  upon  the  attic  windows 
and  burned  red  in  the  vane  over  the  dwelling-place  of 
Madame  Roche.  This  gleam  recalled  the  lad's  imagination 
from  a  musing  fit  of  vague  depression  and  uneasiness. 
He  must  now  think  no  more  of  Cameron — no  more  of  those 
strange  breakings  off  and  partings  which  are  in  life.  On 
the  contrary,  his  old  caprice  of  boyish  generosity  laid  upon 
him  now  the  claim  of  an  urgent — almost  an  irksome — 
duty,  and  he,  who  went  upon  his  travels  to  seek  Mary 
of  Melmar  with  all  the  fervor  of  a  knight-errant,  turned 
upon  his  heel  this  cold  spring  dawn  with  an  inexpressible 
reluctance  and  impatience,  to  go  to  her,  in  obedience  to 
her  own  summons.  He  would  rather  have  been  with 
Cameron  in  his  silent  and  rapid  journey — but  his  duty 
was  here. 

When  Cosmo  went  to  Madame  Roche,  which  he  did  at 
as  early  an  hour  as  he  thought  decorous,  he  found  her  alone, 
waiting  for  him.  She  came  forward  to  receive  him  with 
rather  an  anxious  welcome.  "I  almost  feared  you  were 
gone,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  smile  which  was  less  tran 
quil  than  usual.  "  When  I  saw  your  friends  go,  I  said  to 
myself,  this  boy  is  but  a  fairy  messenger,  who  tells  of  a 
strange  hope,  and  then  is  gone  and  one  hears  no  more  of  it. 
I  am  glad  you  have  not  gone  away  ;  but  your  poor  friend, 
he  has  left  us  ?  I  thought  it  best,  my  child,  to  say  nothing 
to  Marie." 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NORLAW.  293 

Cosmo's  heart  swelled  a  little  in  spite  of  himself;  he 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  the  two  women  gossiping  to 
gether  over  his  friend's  heart-break,  which  was  the  first 
thought  that  occurred  to  him  as  Madame  Roche  spoke,  and 
which,  though  it  was  certainly  unjust,  was  still  partly  justi 
fied  by  the  mysterious  and  compassionate  tone  in  which  the 
old  lady  mentioned  Cameron's  name. 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is  any  occasion  for  saying  any 
thing,  madame,"  said  Cosmo,  with  a  little  abruptness. 
Madame  Roche  was  not  remarkably  quick-sighted,  yet  she 
saw  through  the  lad's  irritation — the  least  smile  in  the  world 
came  to  the  corner  of  her  lip.  She  did  not  think  of  the 
great  pang  in  the  Highlander's  heart — she  knew  very  little 
indeed  of  Cameron — she  only  smiled  with  a  momentary 
amusement  at  Cosmo's  displeasure,  and  a  momentary  sense 
of  womanish  triumph  over  the  subjugated  creature,  man, 
represented  in  the  person  of  this  departed  traveler,  who 
had  just  gone  sadly  away. 

"  Do  not  quarrel  with  me,  my  child,"  she  said,  her  smile 
subsiding  into  its  usual  sweetness  ;  "  the  fault  was  not  with 
me ;  but  tell  me  once  more  this  strange  news  you  told  me 
last  night.  Melmar,  which  was  my  father's,  I  was  born 
heiress  of  it — did  you  say  it  was  mine — mine  f  for  I  think  \ 
I  must  have  mistaken  what  the  words  mean." 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  Cosmo,  who  had  not  yet  quite  re 
covered  his  temper,  "  your  father  left  it  to  you  if  you  were 
ever  found,  and  if  you  were  not  found,  to  my  father,  and 
to  Huntley  Livingstone,  his  heir  and  eldest  son.  My  father 
sought  you  in  vain  all  his  life  ;  he  never  would  put  in  his 
own  claim  lest  it  should  injure  you.  When  he  died,  Hunt- 
ley  was  not  rich  enough  to  go  to  law  for  his  rights,  but  he 
and  everybody  believed  that  you  never  would  be  found, 
and  that  he  was  the  heir.  He  thinks  so  now  ;  he  is  in  Aus 
tralia  working  hard  for  the  money  to  maintain  his  plea,  and 
believing  that  Melmar  will  be  his ;  but  I  have  found  you, 
and  you  are  the  lady  of  Melmar ;  it  is  true." 

"You  tell  me  a  romance — a  drama,"  cried  Madame 
Roche,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Your  father  sought  me  all 
his  life — me  ?  though  I  was  cruel  to  him.  Ah,  how  touch 
ing  !  how  beautiful ! — and  you,  my  young  hero  ! — and  this 
Huntley,  this  one  who  thinks  himself  the  heir — he,  too,  is 
generous,  noble,  without  selfishness — I  know  it !  Oh,  my 


294  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

child,  what  shall  I  do  for  him?  Alas,  Marie!  She  is  my 
eldest  child,  and  she  is  married  already — I  never  grieved 
for  it  enough  till  now." 

"  There  is  no  need,  madame,"  said  Cosmo,  to  whom  these 
little  sentences  came  like  so  many  little  shooting  arrows, 
pricking  him  into  a  disappointed  and  vexed  resentment 
"  Huntley  needs  nothing  to  make  him  amends  for  what  is 
simply  justice.  Mel  mar  is  not  his,  but  yours." 

This  speech,  however,  which  was  somewhat  heroical  in 
tone,  expressed  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of  mind  in. 
Cosmo.  He  was  angry  at  the  idea  of  rewarding  Huntley 
with  the  hand  of  Marie,  if  that  had  not  been  given  away 
already.  It  was  a  highly  romantic  suggestion,  the  very 
embodiment  of  poetic  justice,  had  it  been  practicable;  but 
somehow  it  did  not  please  Cosmo.  Then  another  sugges 
tion,  made  by  his  own  fancy,  came  dancing  unsolicited  into 
the  lad's  mind.  Desiree,  perhaps,  who  was  not  married, 
might  not  she  be  compensation  sufficient  for  Huntley? 
But  Cosmo  grew  very  red  and  felt  exceedingly  indignant 
as  he  thought  of  it ;  this  second  reward  was  rather  more 
distasteful  than  the  first.  lie  paid  very  little  attention, 
indeed,  to  Madame  Roche,  who,  much  excited,  smiled  and 
shed  tears,  and  exclaimed  upon  her  good  fortune,  upon  the 
kindness  of  her  friends,  upon  the  goodness  of  God.  Cosmo 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  did  not  listen  to  her.  He 
was  no  longer  a  young  poet,  full  of  youthful  fervor  and 
generosity.  The  temper  of  the  British  lion  began  to  de 
velop  itself  in  Cosmo.  He  turned  away  from  Madame 
Roche's  pretty  eifusion  of  sentiment  and  joy,  in  a  hitff  of 
disenchantment,  discontented  with  her,  and  himself,  and  all 
the  world. 

Perhaps  some  delicate  spirit  whispered  as  much  in 
the  old  lady's  ear.  She  came  to  him  when  her  first  ex 
citement  was  over,  with  tender  tears  in  her  beautiful  old 
eyes. 

"My  child,  you  have  found  a  fortune  and  a  home  for 
me,"  said  Madame  Roche,  "  but  it  is  to  take  them  away 
from  your  brother.  What  will  your  mother  say  at  home  ?" 

"She  will  say  it  is  right  and  just,  madame,  and  I  have 
done  my  duty,"  said  Cosmo,  briefly  enough. 

Then  Madame  Roche  bent  forward  and  kissed  his  young 
cheek,  like  a  mother,  as  she  was. 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  295 

"  We  are  widow  and  orphans,"  she  said,  softly.  "  God 
will  bless  you — He  is  the  guardian  of  such ;  and  He  will  not 
let  Huntley  -suffer  when  He  sees  how  all  of  you  do  justice 
out  of  a  free  heart." 

Cosmo  was  melted ;  he  turned  away  his  head  to  conceal 
the  moisture  in  his  own  eyes — was  it  out  of  a  free  heart  ? 
He  felt  rebuked  and  humbled  when  he  asked  himself  the 
question ;  but  Madame  Roche  gave  him  no  time  to  think 
of  his  own  feelings.  She  wanted  to  know  every  thing  about 
all  that  had  occurred.  She  was  full  of  curiosity  and  interest, 
natural  and  womanly,  about  not  only  the  leading  points  of 
the  story,  but  all  its  details,  and  as  Marie  did  not  appear, 
Cosmo  by  himself,  with  his  beautiful  old  lady,  was  soon 
reconciled  to  the  new  circumstances,  and  restored  to  his 
first  triumph.  He  had  done  what  his  father  failed  to  do — 
what  his  father's  agents  had  never  been  able  to  accomplish 
— what  newspaper  advertisements  had  attempted  in  vain. 
He  had  justified  his  own  hope,  and  realized  his  own  expec 
tation.  He  had  restored  home  and  fortune  to  the  lost  Mary 
of  Melmar.  A  night  and  a  morning  were  long  enough  for 
the  sway  of  uncomfortable  and  discontented  feelings.  He 
gave  himself  up,  once  more,  to  his  old  enthusiasm,  forgetting 
Huntley's  loss  and  Cameron's  heart-break,  and  his  mother's 
disappointment,  in  the  inspiration  of  his  old  dreams,  all  of 
which  were  now  coming  true.  The  end  of  this  conversa 
tion  was,  that  Cosmo— charged  with  Madame  Roche's  entire 
confidence,  and  acting  as  her  representative — was  to  follow 
his  former  companions  and  return  to  Edinburgh  as  speedily 
as  possible,  and  there  to  instruct  his  old  acquaintance, 
Cassilis,  to  take  steps  immediately  for  the  recovery  of  Mel- 
mar.  He  parted  with  the  old  lady,  who  was,  and  yet  was 
not,  the  Mary  of  his  fancy,  that  same  evening — did  not  see 
Marie,  who  was  fortunately  kept  in  her  room  by  an  access 
of  illness  or  peevishness,  took  leave  of  Baptiste  and  the  old 
streets  of  St.  Ouen  with  great  content  and  exhilaration,  and 
on  the  very  next  morning,  at  an  hour  as  early,  as  chilly,  and 
as  dark  as  that  of  Cameron's  departure,  began  his  journey 
home. 


296  THE    LAIKD    OP    NOKLAW. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

THE  streets  of  Edinburgh  looked  strange  and  unfamiliar 
to  Cosmo  Livingstone  when  he  stood  in  them  once  more — a 
very  boy  still  in  heart  and  experience,  yet  feeling  himself  a 
traveled  and  instructed  man.  He  no  longer  dreamed  of 
turning  his  steps  towards  Mrs.  Purdy's  in  the  High  Street ; 
he  took  his  carpet  bag  to  a  hotel  instead,  half  wondering  at 
himself  for  his  changed  ideas.  Cameron's  ideas  too,  proba 
bly,  were  equally  changed.  Where  was  he,  or  how  had  he 
managed  to  reconcile  the  present  with  the  past?  But 
Cosmo  had  no  time  to  inquire.  He  could  not  pause  in 
Edinburgh  for  any  thing  but  his  needful  business,  which  was 
to  see  Mr.  Cassilis,  and  to  place  in  his  hands  the  interests  of 
Madame  Roche. 

The  young  lawyer  received  him  with  a  careless  kindness 
not  very  flattering  to  Cosmo's  dignity,  but  was  greatly 
startled  by  the  news  he  brought.  Once  only  he  paused  in 
taking  down  all  the  facts  of  the  case  which  Cosmo  could 
give  him,  to  say : — 

"  This  discovery  will  be  a  serious  loss  to  your  brother ;" 
but  Cosmo  made  no  reply,  and  with  that  the  comment 
ceased.  Huntley  and  his  heirship  melted  away  out  of  sight 
in  the  strangest  manner  while  this  conversation  went  on. 
Cosmo  had  never  realized  before  how  entirely  it  separated 
him  and  his  from  all  real  connection  with  Melmar.  The 
sensation  was  not  quite  satisfactory,  for  Melmar,  one  way 
or  another,  had  borne  a  most  strong  and  personal  connec 
tion  with  all  the  thoughts  and  projects  of  the  family  of 
Norlaw  for  a  year  or  two  past;  but  that  was  all  over. 
Cosmo  alone  now  had  any  interest  in  the  matter,  and  that 
solely  as  the  representative  of  Madame  Roche. 

When  he  had  fully  informed  the  young  lawyer  of  all  the 
needful  points  in  the  matter,  and  formally  left  the  cause  in 
his  hands,  Cosmo  left  him  to  secure  a  place  in  the  first  coach, 
and  to  hasten  home  with  all  the  speed  he  could  make.  He 
could  scarcely  have  felt  more  strange,  or  perceived  a  greater 
change  upon  every  thing,  if  he  had  dropped  from  the  skies 
into  Kirkbride  ;  yet  every  thing  was  precisely  the  same,  so 


THE    LAIED     OP    NORLAW.  297 

clearly  and  broadly  recognizable,  that  Cosmo  could  not  un 
derstand  what  difference  had  passed  upon  them,  and  still 
less  could  understand  that  the  difference  was  in  himself. 
His  mother  stood  waiting  for  him  at  the  door  of  the  N"or- 
law  Arms.  It  was  cold  March  weather,  and  the  Mistress 
had  been  sitting  by  the  fire,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  coach. 
She  was  flushed  a  little  with  the  frosty  air  and  the  fire,  and 
looked  disturbed  and  uneasy.  Cosmo  thought  he  could 
fancy  she  turned  a  jealous  eye  upon  himself  as  he  sprang 
from  the  coach  to  meet  her,  which  fancy  was  perfectly  true, 
for  the  Mistress  was  half  afraid  that  her  son  who  had  been 
abroad  might  be  "  led  away"  by  his  experiences  of  travel, 
and  might  have  become  indifferent  or  contemptuous  about 
his  home.  She  was  a  little  displeased,  too,  that  he  had  lin 
gered  behind  Cameron.  She  was  not  like  Madame  Roche — 
all-enduring  sweetness  was  not  in  this  old-fashioned  Scottish 
mother.  She  could  not  help  making  a  strong  personal 
claim  of  that  arbitrary  love  which  stinted  nothing  in  be 
stowing  upon  those  who  were  her  own,  and  opened  her 
heart  only  slowly  and  secondarily  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"  So  you're  hame  at  last !"  was  the  Mistress's  salutation  ; 
though  her  eye  was  jealous,  there  was  moisture  in  it,  as  she 
looked  at  her  boy.  Cosmo  had  grown  in  stature  for  one 
thing ;  he  was  brown  with  exposure,  and  looked  manly  and 
strong ;  and,  not  least,  his  smooth  cheeks  began  to  show 
evidence  of  those  symptoms  of  manhood  which  boys  adore. 
There  was  even  a  something  not  to  be  described  or  defined 
upon  Cosmo's  upper  lip,  which  caught  his  mother's  eye  in  a 
moment,  and  gave  a  tangible  ground  for  her  little  outburst 
of  half-angry  fondness. 

"  You're  no'  to  bring  any  of  your  outlandish  fashions 
here  !"  said  the  Mistress,  "  though  you  have  been  in  foreign 
parts.  I'll  have  no  person  in  my  house  bearded  like  a 
Frenchman.  Can  you  no'  carry  your  bag  in  your  ain  hand, 
laddie  ?  Come  away,  then ;  you  can  shake  hands  with 
other  folk  another  time." 

As  the  Mistress  spoke,  a  figure  strange  to  Kirkbride 
stalked  through  the  circle  of  lookers-on.  Nothing  like  that 
bearded  face  and  wide  cloak  had  been  known  to  Cosmo's 
memory  in  the  village  or  the  district.  He  turned  uncon 
sciously  to  look  after  the  stranger.  Further  down  on  the 
road  before  were  two  girls  whom  Cosmo  recognized  with  a 

13* 


298  THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW. 

start ;  one  was  Joanna  Huntley,  the  other  there  was  no  pos 
sibility  of  mistaking.  Cosmo  gazed  after  her  wistfully — a 
blush  of  recollection,  of  embarrassment,  almost  of  guilt, 
suddenly  rising  to  his  face.  Bowed  Jaacob  stood  at  his 
smithy  door,  with  the  fiery  glow  of  the  big  fire  behind  him, 
a  swart  little  demon  gazing  after  her  too.  Desiree  !  Was 
she  the  desired  of  this  unkown  figure  in  the  cloak,  who  went 
languidly  along  to  join  her  ?  Cosmo  stood  silent  for  a  mo 
ment,  altogether  absorbed  by  the  junction  of  old  and  new 
thus  strangely  presented  to  him.  Familiar  Kirkbride,  with 
Jaacob  at  the  smithy  door,  and  that  graceful  little  figure  of 
romance,  whose  story  no  one  but  Cosrno  knew,  followed  by 
the  other  stranger  figure  which  he  was  entirely  unacquainted 
with.  He  started  when  his  mother  repeated  her  imperative 
summons — the  color  on  his  cheeks  looked  guilty  and  trou 
bled  ;  he  had  his  secret  on  his  heart,  and  knew  beforehand 
that  it  would  not  be  agreeable  to  the  Mistress.  So  he  did 
the  very  worst  thing  he  could  have  done — postponed  the 
telling  of  it  to  a  more  convenient  season,  and  so  went  un 
comfortably,  and  with  a  visible  restraint,  which  vexed  his 
mother's  soul  within  her,  home  to  Norlaw. 

Patie,  as  it  happened,  had  come  home  a  few  days  before 
on  a  brief  visit ;  and  when  they  met  round  the  tire  that 
first  evening,  every  one's  thought  instinctively  was  of  Hunt- 
ley.  When  Marget  came  in,  disturbing  the  gloamin  quiet 
ness  with  lights,  her  long-drawn  sigh  and  involuntary  ex 
clamation  : — 

"  Eh,  sirs !  if  Master  Huntley  were  but  here  !"  startled  the 
little  family  group  into  open  discussion  of  the  subject  which 
was  in  all  their  hearts. 

"  Huntley's  been  further  than  you,  Cosmo,"  said  the  Mis 
tress,  "  and  maybe  seen  mair ;  but  I  wouldna  wonder  if 
Huntley  thinks  yet,  as  he  thought  when  he  left  Norlaw,  that 
there's  no  place  equal  to  hame." 

"  Huntley's  in  the  bush  ;  there's  not  very  much  to  make 
him  change  his  opinion  there,  mother,"  said  Patrick. 

"Ay,  but  Huntley's  heart  is  ever  at  hame,"  said  the  Mis 
tress,  finding  the  one  who  was  absent  always  the  dearest. 

"  Mother,"  said  Cosmo,  his  courage  failing  him  a  little, 
"  I  have  something  to  tell  you — and  it  concerns  Huntley, 
too,  mother.  Mother,  I  have  found  the  lady,  the  heir — she 
whom  we  have  all  heard  so  much  about;  Patie,  you  know  ?" 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  299 

"  What  lady  ?  wliat  heir  ?  and  how  does  Patie  know  ?" 
asked  the  Mistress ;  then  she  paused,  and  her  countenance 
changed.  A  guess  at  the  truth  occurred  to  her,  and  its  first 
effect  was  an  angry  flush,  which  gradually  stole  over  her 
face.  "  Patie  is  no  a  romancer,  to  have  to  do  with  heirs 
and  ladies,"  she  added,  quickly ;  "  nor  to  have  strange  folk 
in  his  thoughts  the  first  hour  he's  at  home.  I  canna  tell 
wherefore  any  one  of  you  should  have  such  wandering  fan 
cies  ;  it's  no'  like  a  bairn  of  mine." 

"  Mother,  I've  learnt  something  by  it,"  said  Cosmo  ;  "  be 
fore  I  went  away,  I  thought  it  worth  hunting  over  all  the 
world  to  find  her — for  no  reason  that  I  can  tell,  except  that 
she  was  wronged,  and  that  we  might  be  the  better  if  she 
never  came  back ;  but  now  I  have  found  her — I  know  where 
Mary  of  Melmar  is,  and  she  knows  she's  the  heir  ;  but  ever 
since  my  thought  has  been  of  Huntley.  Huntley  could 
have  had  no  pleasure  in  Melmar,  mother,  if  it  were  not 
justly  his  own." 

The  Mistress  raised  her  head  high  as  Cosmo  spoke.  An 
ger,  great  disappointment,  of  which  she  was  half  ashamed, 
and  a  pride  which  was  resolute  to  show  no  sign  of  disap 
pointment,  contended  in  her  face  with  that  bitter  dislike  and 
repugnance  to  the  lost  Mary  which  she  had  never  been  able 
— perhaps  had  seldom  tried  to  conquer.  "I  have  heard 
plenty  of  Mary  of  Melmar,"  said  the  Mistress,  hastily ;  "ae 
time  and  another  she's  been  the  plague  of  my  life.  What, 
laddie !  do  you  mean  to  say  you  left  me,  and  your  hame, 
and  your  ain  business,  to  seek  this  woman  ?  What  was  she 
to  you  ?  And  you  come  back  and  tell  me  you've  found  her, 
as  if  I  was  to  rejoice  at  the  news.  You  ken  where  she  is, 
and  she  kens  she's  the  heir ;  and  I  crave  ye  to  tell  me  what 
is  that  to  me  ?  Be  silent,  Patie  !  Am  I  her  mother,  or  her 
sister,  or  her  near  friend,  that  this  lad  shall  come  to  bring 
the  news  to  me  ?" 

"  It's  poor  news,"  said  Patie,  who  did  not  hesitate  to  look 
gravely  annoyed  and  disappointed,  as  he  was ;  "  very  poor 
news  for  all  of  us,  mother ;  but  at  least  it's  better  that  Cos 
mo  found  her  than  a  stranger — if  found  she  was  to  be." 

The  Mistress  paused  a  moment,  subdued  by  this  sugges 
tion.  "Poor  news!  I  kenna  what  you  both  mean,"  she 
said,  with  pride;  "what  concern  is  it  of  ours?  Would 
my  Huntley  ever  put  hand  or  touch  upon  another  person's 


300  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

gear  ?  Let  her  come  back  the  morn,  and  what  the  waur 
are  we  ?  Do  yon  think  I  envied  her  Melmar,  or  her  land  ? 
Do  you  think  I  would  have  made  my  son  rich  at  her  cost, 
that  never  was  a  friend  to  me  ?  You  may  ken  many  things, 
laddies,  but  you  dinna  ken  your  mother.  Me  ! — I  wonldna 
take  blade  o'  grass  or  drop  of  water  belonging  to  her,  if 
you  asked  me  ;  and  I'm  thankful  to  tell  ye  baith  my  Hunt- 
ley  is  Huntley  Livingstone  of  Norlaw,  and  needs  to  be  in 
debted  to  no  person  in  this  whole  country-side." 

The  Mistress  rose  up  in  the  fervor  of  her  indignant  disap 
pointment  ;  vexation  and  mortified  feeling  brought  the  wa 
ter  to  her  eyes.     She  felt  aggrieved  and  wronged,  not- only 
in  this  setting  aside  of  Huntley,  but  in  the  very  fact  that 
Mary   of  Melmar   was   about   to   return.     This   Mary,  for 
whose  unthankful  sake  her  husband  had  neglected  her  hon 
est  love  and  faithful  heart,  had  at  last  lured  even  her  son, 
her  youngest  and  best  beloved,  away  from  her,  and  was 
coming  back  triumphant  to  the  inheritance  which  might 
have  been  Huntley's.    The  Mistress's  heart  rose  in  a  tumult 
of  pride,  love,  indignation,  and  bitterness.     She  said  "  my 
son,"  and  "  my  Huntley,"  with  a  proud  and  tender  empha 
sis,  an  involuntary,  anxious  impulse  to  make  amends  to  him 
for  the  hope  he  had  lost — yet  with  an  equally  natural  feel 
ing  rejected  indignantly  all  sympathy  for  him,  and  would  not 
permit  even  his  brothers  to  speak  of  disappointment  or  loss 
to  Huntley  in  this  new  event.     She  went  away  across  the 
room,  breaking  up  the  fireside  circle  by  the  hasty  movement, 
to  seek  out  in  her  basket  the  stocking  which  she  was  knit 
ting — for  the  Mistress's  eyes  began  to  fail  her  in  candlelight 
with  all  her  more  delicate  industries — and  coming  back  to 
the  table,  began  to  knit  with  absorbed  attention,  counting 
the  loops  in  the  heel  as  if  she  had  no  care  for  the  further 
particulars  which  Cosmo,  encouraged  by  Patie,  proceeded 
to  tell.     Yet  she  did  hear  them  notwithstanding.     But  for 
the  presence  of  Patie's  practical  good  sense,  Cosmo  and  his 
mother  might  have  had  painful  recollections  of  that  night ; 
but  his  brother's  steady  look  and  sober  attention  kept  Cos 
mo  from  indulging  the  irritation  and  wounded  feeling  which 
he  might  have  felt  otherwise.     He  went  on  with  his  story, 
gradually  growing  interested  in  it,  and  watching — as  a  dra 
matist  might  watch   his  first   audience — the   figure   of  the 
Mistress,  who  sat  almost  with  her  back  to  him,  knitting  as- 

* 


THE    LAIHD     OF    NORLAW.  301 

siduously,  the  light  of  the  candle  throwing  a  great  shadow 
of  her  cap  upon  the  wall,  and  her  elbow  moving  slightly 
with  the  movement  of  her  wires.  Cosmo  watched  how  the 
elbow  moved  irregularly  at  certain  points  of  his  tale,  how  it 
was  still  for  an  instant  now  and  then,  as  the  interest  grew, 
and  the  boy-poet  was  pleased  and  forgave  his  mother.  At 
last  the  stocking  fell  from,  the  Mistress's  hand — she  pushed 
back  her  chair,  and  turned  round  upon  him  with  a  half- 
scream. 

"  Desiree !"  cried  the  Mistress,  as  she  might  have  exclaim 
ed  at  the  crisis  of  a  highly  interesting  novel,  "  it's  her  that's 
at  Melmar — whisht! — dinna  speak  to  me — I'm  just  as  sure 
as  that  we're  a'  here — it's  her  ain  very  bairn  !" 

After  this,  Cosmo's  tale  ended  with  a  great  success ;  he 
had  excited  his  mother — and  the  truth  began  to  glide  into 
her  unwilling  heart,  that  Mary  of  Melmar  was,  like  herself, 
the  mother  of  fatherless  children,  a  widow,  and  poor.  She 
heard  all  the  rest  without  a  word  of  displeasure ;  she  be 
came  grave,  and  said  nothing,  when  her  sons  discussed  the 
matter ;  she  nodded  her  head  approvingly  when  Patie  re 
peated  rather  more  strongly  than  before  his  satisfaction  that 
Cosmo  had  found  the  lost  Mary,  since  she  was  to  be  found. 
The  Mistress  was  thinking  of  something — but  it  was  only 
after  she  had  said  good  night  to  them  that  the  youths  dis 
covered  what  it  was. 

"  Bairns,"  said  the  Mistress  then,  abruptly  pausing  upon 
the  stair,  with  her  candle  in  her  hand,  "  that  bit  lassie  at 
Melmar  is  in  the  dwelling  of  the  enemy — and  if  it  were  not 
so,  the  mother  canna  make  war  on  the  house  where  her 
bairn  has  shelter.  You're  her  nearest  kinsmen  that  I  ken 
of,  to  be  friends  as  well — she'll  have  to  come  here." 

"  Mother !"  cried  Cosmo,  in  delight  and  surprise,  and 
compunction,  "  can  you  ask  her  here  ?" 

"  Ay,  laddie — I  can  do  mony  things,  mair  than  the  like  of 
you  ken  of,"  said  the  Mistress ;  and,  saying  so,  she  went 
slowly  up  stairs,  with  the  light  in  her  hand,  and  her  shadow 
climbing  the  Avail  after  her,  leaving  no  unkindness  in  the 
echo  of  her  motherly  good  night. 


302  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 


CHAPTER    LX. 

DURING  all  these  months  Desiree  had  led  a  strange  life  at 
Melraar.     She  had  never  told   any  one   of  the  revelation, 
painful  and  undesired,  the  miserable  enlightenment  which 
Aunt  Jean's  story  had  brought.     What  Cosmo  told  Madame 
Roche  months  after,  Madame  Roche's  little  daughter  knew 
on  that  winter  night  by  the  Kelpie,  when  the  tale  of  Aunt 
Jean,  and  all  its  confirming  circumstances,  stung  her  poor 
little  heart  with  its  first  consciousness  of  falsehood  and  so 
cial  treachery.     After  that  she  was  ill,  and  they  were  kind 
to  her  at  Melmar,  and  when  she  recovered  Desiree  still  did 
not  tell  her  mother.     People  did  not  write  so  many  letters 
then  as  they  do  now,  in  these  corresponding  days — Madame 
Roche  certainly  did  not  hear  oftener  than  once  a  fortnight, 
sometimes  not  more  than  once  a  month  from  her  daughter, 
for  Melmar  was  nearly  as  far  from  St.  Ouen  in  those  days  as 
India  is  now.     Many  a  painful  thought  it  cost  poor  Desiree 
as  she  stole  out  by  herself,  avoiding  every  one,  to  the  side 
of  Tyne.     Oswald  Huntley,  after  her -recovery,  had  resumed 
his  manner  of  devotion  toward  her — but  Desirce's  eyes  were 
no  longer  touched  with  the  fairy  glamour  of  her  first  dream. 
She  had  not  been  "  in  love,"  though  the  poor  child  imag 
ined  she  had — she  had  only  been  amused  by  that  dream  of 
romantic  fancy  to  which  seventeen  is  subject,  and  touched 
into  gratitude  and  pleasure  by  the  supposed  love  she  had 
won — yet,  even  while  she  scorned  his  false  pretense  of  ten 
derness,  that  very  disdain  made  Desiree   shrink  from   the 
thought  of  injuring  Oswald.     She  was  sadly  troubled  be 
tween   the   two   sentiments,  this   poor   little  girl,  who  was 
French,  and  Madame  Roche's  child,  and  who  consequently 
was  much  tempted  by  the  dangerous  intoxications  of  feel 
ing.     What   was    barely,   simply,   straightforwardly  right 
might   have  satisfied  Joanna;  but  Desiree  could  not  help 
thinking  of  self-sacrifice  and  suffering  for  others,  and  all  the 
girlish  heroics  common  to  her  age.     She  could  not  live  in 
their  house  and  betray  the  family  who  had  sheltered  and 
were  kind  to  her.     She  seemed  to  be  tempted  to  avenge  her 
self  on  Oswald  by  righting  her  mother  at  his  expense ;  so 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  303 

for  feeling's  sake  Desiree  kept  herself  very  unhappy,  saying 
nothing  to  her  mother  of  the  discovery  she  had  made,  una 
ble  to  resume  her  old  cordiality  with  the  Huntleys,  ill  at  ease 
in  her  own  mind,  and  sadly  solitary  and  alone.  If  it  had 
been  any  mere  piece  of  information — or  had  the  injury  to  be 
done  been  her  own,  Desiree  would  have  seen  what  was  right, 
plainly  enough — but  as  it  was,  she  only  thought  of  the  cruel 
difference  to  the  family  of  Melmar,  which  a  word  of  hers 
might  make,  and  of  the  selfish  advantage  to  herself;  and 
feeling  conscious  of  the  sacrifice  she.  made  for  them — a  sac 
rifice  which  nobody  knew  or  appreciated,  and  which  her 
conscience  told  her  wras  even  wrong — Desiree's  mind  grew 
embittered  against  them  and  all  the  world ;  and  her  poor 
little  heart,  uneasy,  cross,  and  restless,  consumed  itself.  As 
the  struggle  continued  it  made  her  ill  and  pale,  as  well  as 
disturbed  in  mind ;  nobody  could  tell  what  ailed  her — and 
even  Aunt  Jean,  with  her  keen  black  eyes,  could  not  read 
Desiree.  She  had  "  something  on  her  mind." 

When  one  day  she  was  startled  by  the  arrival  of  a  visitor, 
who  asked  to  see  her,  and  was  put  into  a  little  waiting-room 
— a  cold  little  room,  without  a  fire,  into  which  the  March 
sunshine  came  chill,  with  no  power  of  warmth  in  it — to  wait 
for  the  little  governess.  Desiree  was  much  amazed  when 
she  entered  here  to  see  the  ruddy  and  comely  face  of  the 
Mistress  looking  down  upon  her,  out  of  that  black  bonnet 
and  widow's  cap.  It  was  a  face  full  of  faults,  like  its  owner, 
but  it  was  warm,  bright,  kind,  fall  of  an  unsubduable  spirit 
and  intelligence,  which  had  long  ago  attracted  the  eye  of 
the  vivacious  little  Frenchwoman,  who,  however,  did  not 
know  Mrs.  Livingstone,  except  by  sight.  They  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence  for  the  first  moment — one  amazed,  and 
the  other  thoughtful — at  last  the  Mistress  spoke. 

"  Maybe  I  may  not  name  you  right,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have 
nae  knowledge  of  your  tongue,  and  no'  much  of  strangers, 
whatever  place   they  come  from ;  but  my  son  Cosmo  has  \ 
seen  your  mother,  in  foreign  parts,  and  that  is  the  reason 
that  brings  me  here." 

Desiree  started  violently ;  for  the  moment  it  seemed  to 
her  that  this  was  her  true  and  fit  punishment.  Her  mother, 
whom  she  might  have  been  with — who  might  have  been 
here  had  Desiree  but  spoken — was  sick,  was  dying,  and  a 
stranger  brought  her  the  news !  She  grew  very  pale  and 


304  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW. 

clasped  her  little  French  hands  in  a  passion  of  grief  and 
self-upbraiding. 

"  She  is  ill !"  cried  Desiree,  "  ill,  and  I  am  here !" 

"  ]^a — no'  that  I  ken  of,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  stranger 
news  than  that ;  do  you  know  of  any  bond  between  your 
mother  and  this  house  of  Melmar  ?  for  that  is  what  I  am 
come  to  tell  you  of  now,  as  maybe  she  has  done  herself  be 
fore  this  time  by  hand  of  write." 

From  pale,  Desiree's  cheeks  became  burning  red — her 
eyes  sank  beneath  the  look  of  the  Mistress,  her  heart  beat 
loud  and  wildly.  Who  had  found  her  out  ?  but  she  only 
turned  her  head  aside  with  an  uneasy  movement  and  did 
not  speak. 

"  I  may  guess  you've  heard  tell  of  it  by  your  face,"  said 
the  Mistress  ;  "  Melmar  was  left  by  will  to  my  family — to 
my  Huntley,  the  eldest  and  the  heir — failing  your  mother, 
that  was  thought  to  be  lost.  When  he  heard  tell  of  that, 
my  Cosmo  would  not  rest  till  he  was  away  on  his  travels 
seeking  her.  He's  been  through  France  and  Italy,  and  I 
ken  not  what  unlikely  places  a'  to  look  for  your  mother, 
and  at  last  he's  found  her ;  and  she's  coming  home  with 
little  mair  delay  to  be  enfeoffed  in  her  ain  lands  and  prove 
herself  the  heir." 

Bitter  tears,  which  still  had  a  certain  relief  in  them,  fell 
heavy  from  Desiree's  eyes — she  had  known  it  all,  but  had 
not  been  the  means  of  bringing  this  fortune  to  her  mother. 
Her  first  impulse  was  not  the  delighted  surprise  which 
the  Mistress  expected,  but  she  threw  herself  forward, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  at  her  visitor's  feet,  and  seized 
her  hand  and  cried — "  Is  it  true  ?"  with  a  vehemence 
which  almost  scandalized  the  Mistress.  Cosmo's  mother 
took  her  hand  away  involuntarily,  .but  moved  by  the 
girl's  tears  laid  it  on  her  head,  with  a  hasty  but  kindly 
motion. 

"  It's  true,"  said  the  Mistress  ;  "  but  being  true  do  you 
no'  see  you  canna  stay  here  ?  It  is  your  mother's  house — 
but  though  I  hold  this  Me'mar  for  little  better  than  a  knave, 
yet  I  would  not  deceive  him.  You  canna  remain  here  when 
your  mother's  plea  against  him  is  begun.  You  should  not 
stay  another  day  without  letting  him  ken  who  you  are — and 
that  is  why  I'm  here  to  bid  you  come  back  with  me  to 
Norlaw." 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  305 

"To  Norlaw!"  cried  Desiree,  faintly;  she  had  no  words 
to  express  her  amazement  at  the  invitation — her  shame  for 
the  deceit  which  she  had  practiced,  and  which  was  worse 
than  any  thing  the  Mistress  supposed  possible — her  strange 
humiliation  in  comparing  herself,  Oswald  Huntley,  every 
one  here,  with  Cosmo ;  somehow  when  this  sudden  burst 
of  honest  daylight  fell  upon  her,  Desiree  felt  herself  as  great 
a  culprit  as  Melmar.  Her  place  seemed  with  him  and  with 
his  son,  who  knew  the  truth  and  concealed  it — not  with  the 
generous  and  true  hearts  who  relinquished  their  own  expec 
tations  to  do  justice  to  the  wronged.  In  an  agony  of  shame 
and  self-disgust,  Desiree  hid  her  face  in  her  hands — she  was 
like  Oswald  Huntley  whom  she  despised — she  was  not  like 
Cosmo  Livingstone  nor  Cosmo's  mother. 

"Ay — to  Norlaw,"  said  the  Mistress,  ignorant  of  all  this 
complication  of  feeling  and  with  a  softening  in  her  voice  ; 
"  Norlaw  himself,  that's  gane,  was  near  of  kin  to  your 
mother ;  your  grandfather,  auld  Melmar,  was  good  to  us  and 
ours ;  my  sons  are  your  nearest  kinsmen  in  these  parts,  and 
I'm  their  mother.  It's  mair  for  your  honor  and  credit,  and 
for  your  mother's,  now  when  you  ken,  to  be  there  than  here. 
Come  hame  with  me — you'll  be  kindly  welcome  at  Norlaw." 

"And  yet,"  said  Desiree,  lifting  her  tearful  eyes,  and  her 
face  flushed  with  painful  emotion ;  "  and  yet  but  for  us,  all 
this  fortune  would  have  gone  to  your  son.  Why  are  you 
kind  to  me  ?  you  ought  to  hate  me." 

"  N"a !"  said  the  Mistress,  with  proud  love  and  triumph  ; 
"  my  Huntley  is  nane  the  wanr — bairn,  do  you  think  the 
like  of  you  could  harm  my  son,  that  I  should  hate  you  ? 
ISTa !  he  would  work  his  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  eat  dry 
bread  a'  his  days  before  he  would  touch  the  inheritance  of 
the  widow — loss  of  land  or  loss  of  gear  is  no  such  loss  to  my 
Huntley  that  I  should  think  ill  of  any  person  for  its  sake  • 
and  you're  my  son's  kinswoman,  and  I'm  his  mother.  Come 
hame  with  me  till  your  ain  mother  is  here." 

Without  a  word  Desiree  rose,  dried  her  eyes,  and  held 
out*  her  little  hand  to  the  Mistress,  who  took  it  doubt 
fully. 

"  I  will  be  your  daughter,  your  servant !"  cried  the  little 
Frenchwoman,  with  enthusiasm ;  "  I  will  come  to  learn 
what  truth  means.  Wait  but  till  I  tell  them.  I  will  stay 
here  no  longer — I  will  do  all  that  you  say !" 


306  THE    LAIED     OF    NOELA.W, 

In  another  moment  she  darted  out  of  the  room  to  prepare, 
afraid  to  linger.  The  Mistress  looked  after  her,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  My  daughter !"  said  the  Mistress  to  herself,  with  a 
"humph!"  after  the  words — and  therewith  she  thought  ol 
Katie  Logan  ;  where  was  Katie  now  ? 


CHAPTEE    LXI. 

THE  Mclmar  family  had  just  concluded  their  luncheon, 
and  were  still  assembled  in  the  dining-room — all  but  Mrs. 
Huntley,  who  had  not  yet  come  down  stairs — when  Desiree, 
flushed  and  excited  from  her  interview  with  the  Mistress, 
who  waited  for  her  in  the  little  room,  came  hastily  in  upon 
the  party  ;  without  noticing  any  of  the  others  Desiree  went 
up  at  once  to  the  head  of  the  house,  who  glared  at  her  from 
behind  his  newspaper  with  his  stealthy  look  of  suspicion 
and  watchfulness,  as  she  advanced.  Something  in  her  look 
roused  the  suspicions  of  Mr.  Huntley;  he  gave  a  quick, 
angry  glance  aside  at  Oswald,  as  if  inquiring  the  cause  of 
the  girl's  excitement,  which  his  son  replied  to  with  a  side- 
look  of  sullen  resentment  and  mortification — an  unspoken 
angry  dialogue  which  often  passed  between  the  father  and 
son,  for  Melmar  had  imposed  upon  the  young  man  the  task 
of  keeping  Desiree  in  ignorance  and  happiness,  a  charge 
which  Oswald,  who  had  lost  even  the  first  novelty  of  amus 
ing  himself  with  her  found  unspeakably  galling,  a  constant 
humiliation.  The  little  Frenchwoman  came  up  rapidly  to 
her  host  and  employer — her  cheek  glowing,  her  eye  shining, 
her  small  foot  in  her  stout  little  winter-shoe  sounding  lightly 
yet  distinctly  on  the  carpet.  They  all  looked  at  her  with  in 
voluntary  expectation.  Something  newTly-discovered  and 
strange  shone  in  Desiree's  face. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  I  come  to  thank  you  for  being 
kind  to  me.  I  come  because  it  is  honest  to  tell  you — I  am 
going  away." 

"Going  away?  What's  wrong?"  said  Melmar,  with  a 
little  alarm ;  "  come  into  my  study,  mademoiselle,  and  we 


THE    LAIED     OP    NOEL  AW.  307 

will  put  all  right,  never  fear ;  that  little  deevil  Patricia  has 
been  at  her  again  !" 

Desiree  did  not  wait  for  the  burst  of  shrewish  tears  and 
exclamations  which  even  Patricia's  extreme  curiosity  could 
not  restrain.  She  answered  quickly  and  with  eagerness, 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  Patricia — it  is  no  one — it  is  news  from 
home  ;  you  know  it  already — you  know  it !"  cried  the  girl. 
"  My  mother !  She  is  poor ;  I  have  had  to  come  away 
from,  her  to  be  a  governess ;  and  you,  alas,  knew  who  she 
was,  but  said  nothing  of  it  to  me !" 

And  involuntarily  Desiree's  eyes  sought,  with  a  momen 
tary  indignant  glance,  the  face  of  Oswald.  He  sat  perfectly 
upright  in  his  chair  staring  at  her,  growing  red  and  white 
by  turns ;  red  with  a  fierce,  selfish  anger,  white  with  a 
baffled,  ungenerous  shame,  the  ignominy,  not  of  doing  wrong, 
but  of  being  found  out.  But  even  in  that  moment,  in  the 
mortifying  consciousness  that  this  little  girl  had  discovered 
and  despised  him — the  revenge,  or  rather,  for  it  was  smaller 
— the  spite  of  a  mean  mind,  relieved  itself  at  least  in  the 
false  wooer's  face.  He  turned  to  her  with  the  bitterest 
sneer  poor  Desiree  had  ever  seen.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  what 
cause  but  this  could  have  induced  me  to  notice  you  /"  She 
did  not  care  for  him,  but  she  thought  she  once  had  cared, 
and  the  sneer  galled  the  poor  little  Frenchwoman  to  the 
heart. 

"  You  are  ungenerous — you  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  fiery 
vehemence  and  passion,  "  you  delude  me,  and  then  you  sneer. 
Shall  I  sneer  at  you,  you  sordid,  you  who  wrong  the  widow  ? 
But  no !  If  you  had  not  known  me  I  should  have  thanked 
you,  and  my  mother  would  never,  never  have  injured 
one  who  was  good  to  Desiree  ;  but  now  it  is  war,  and  I  go. 
Farewell,  Monsieur  !  you  did  not  mean  to  be  kind,  but  only 
to  blind  me — ah,  I  was  wrong  to  speak  of  thanks — fare 
well  !" 

"  What   do  you  mean  ?  who  has  deceived  you  ?"  cried  x 
Joanna,  stepping  forward  and  shaking   Desiree  somewhat    ' 
roughly  by  the  arm  ;  "  tell  us  all  plain  out  what  it  is.     I'm 
as  sure  as  I  can  be  that  it's  him  that's  wrong — and  I  think 
shame  of  Oswald  to  see  him  sit  there,  holding  his  tongue 
when  he  should  speak  ;  but  you  shanna  look  so  at  papa  !" 

And  Joanna  stood  between  Melmar  and  her  excited  little 
friend,  thrusting  the  latter  away,  and  yet  holding  her  fast 


308  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

at  arm's  length.  Melmar  put  his  arm  on  his  daughter's 
shoulder  and  set  her  quietly  aside. 

"  Let  us  hear  what  this  discovery  is,"  said  Mr.  Huntley  ; 
"  who  is  your  mother,  mademoiselle  ?" 

At  which  cool  question  Desiree  blazed  for  an  instant  into 
a  flush  of  fury,  but  immediately  shrunk  with  a  cool  dread 
of  having  been  wrong  and  foolish.  Perhaps,  after  all,  they 
did  not  know — perhaps  it  was  she  who  was  about  to  heighten 
the  misfortune  of  their  loss  and  ruin  by  ungenerous  insinua 
tions.  Desiree  paused  and  looked  doubtfully  in  Melmar's 
face.  He  was  watching  her  with  his  usual  stealthy  vigilance, 
looking,  as  usual,  heated  and  fiery,  curving  his  bushy,  griz 
zled  eyebrows  over  those  keen  cat-like  eyes.  She  gazed  at 
him  with  a  doubtful,  almost  imploring,  look — was  she  injur 
ing  him  ? — had  he  not  known  ? 

"  Come,  mademoiselle,"  said  Melmar,  gaining  confidence 
as  he  saw  the  girl  was  a  little  daunted,  "  I  have  but  a  small 
acquaintance  in  your  country.  Who  was  your  mother  ?  It 
does  not  concern  us  much,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but  still,  let's 
hear.  Oswald,  my  lad,  can't  you  use  your  influence  ? — we 
are  all  waiting  to  hear." 

Oswald,  however,  had  given  up  the  whole  business.  He 
was  pleased  to  be  able  to  annoy  his  father  and  affront  De 
siree  at  last.  Perhaps  the  rage  and  disappointment  in  his 
heart  were  in  some  sort  a  relief  to  him.  He  was  at  least 
free  now  to  express  his  real  sentiments.  He  got  up  hastily 
from  his  chair,  thrust  it  aside  so  roughly  that  it  fell,  and 
with  a  suppressed  but  audible  oath,  left  the  room.  Then 
Desiree  stood  alone,  with  Melmar  watching  her,  with  Patri 
cia  crying  spitefully  close  at  hand,  and  even  Joanna,  her 
own  friend,  menacing  and  unfriendly.  The  poor  girl  did 
not  know  where  to  turn  or  what  to  do. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,"  she  said,  with  a  momentary  falter. 
"  There  was  no  reason,  it  is  *  true,  why  you  should  know 
mamma.  And  perhaps  it  is  unkind  and  ungenerous  of  me. 
But — ah,  Joanna,  you  guessed  it  when  I  did  not  know ! — 
you  said  she  must  have  been  here — you  are  honest  and 
knew  no  harm !  My  mother  was  born  at  Melmar ;  it  is 
hers,  though  she  is  poor — and  she  is  coming  home." 

"  Coming  home  !  this  is  but  a  poor  story,  mademoiselle," 
said  Melmar.  "  That  person  died  abroad  long  ago,  and 
was  mother  to  nobody  ;  but  it's  clever,  by  George  !  uncom- 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  309 

monly  clever.  Her  mother's  coming  home,  and  my  land 
belongs  to  her !  cool,  that,  I  must  say.  Will  you  take  Pa 
tricia  for  your  lady's  maid,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  sneer,  you  all  sneer  !"  cried  Desiree.  "  I  could 
sneer  too,  if  I  were  as  guilty ;  but  it  is  true,  and  you  know 
it  is  true  ;  you,  who  are  our  kinsman  and  should  have  cared 
for  us — you,  who  have  planned  to  deceive  a  poor  stranger 
girl — you  know  it  is  true  !" 

"  If  he  does,"  cried  Joanna,  "  yoitfre  no'  to  stand  there 
and  tell  him.  He  has  been  as  kind  to  you  as  if  you  be 
longed  to  us — you  don't  belong  to  us — go — go  away  this 
moment.  I  will  not  let  you  stay  here  !" 

And  Joanna  stamped  her  foot  in  the  excess  of  her  in 
dignation  and  sympathy  with  her  father,  who  looked  on, 
through  all  this  side-play  of  feelings,  entirely  unmoved. 
Poor  little  Desiree,  on  the  contrary,  was  stung  and  wounded 
beyond  measure  by  Joanna's  violence.  She  gave  her  one 
terrified,  passionate  look,  half  reproachful,  half  defiant,  had 
hard  ado  to  restrain  a  burst  of  girlish,  half-weeping  recrimi 
nation,  and  then  turned  round  with  one  sob  out  of  her  poor 
little  heart,  which  felt  as  though  it  would  burst,  and  went 
away  with  a  forlorn,  heroical  dignity  out  of  the  room.  Poor 
Desiree  would  not  have  looked  back  for  a  kingdom,  but  she 
hoped  to  have  been  called  back,  for  all  that,  and  could 
almost  have  fallen  down  on  the  threshold  with  mortification 
and  disappointment,  when  she  found  that  no  one  interfered 
to  prevent  her  withdrawal.  The  poor  child  was  full  of  sen 
timent,  but  had  a  tender  heart  withal.  She  could  not  bear 
to  leave  a  house  where  she  had  lived  so  long  after  this 
fashion,  and  but  for  her  pride,  Desiree  would  have  rushed 
back  to  fall  into  Joanna's  arms,  and  beg  everybody's  par 
don  ;  but  her  pride  sustained  her  in  the  struggle,  and  at 
length  vanquished  her  "feelings."  Instead  of  rushing  into 
Joanna's  arms,  she  went  to  the  Mistress,  who  still  waited 
for  her  in  the  little  room,  and  who  had  already  been  edified 
by  hearing  the  fall  of  Oswald's  chair,  and  seeing  that  gentle 
man,  as  he  went  furiously  forth,  kicking  Patricia's  lap-dog 
out  of  his  way  in  the  hall.  The  Mistress  was  human.  She 
listened  to  those  sounds  and  witnessed  that  sight  with  a 
natural,  but  not  very  amiable  sentiment.  She  was  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  to  be  so  informed  that  she  had 
brought  a  thunderbolt  to  Melmar. 


310  THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW. 

"  Let  them  bear  it  as  they  dow,"  said  the  Mistress,  with 
an  angry  triumph ;  "  neither  comfort  nor  help  to  any  mor 
tal  has  come  out  of  Me'mar  for  mony  a  day ;"  and  she 
received  the  unfortunate  little  cause  of  all  this  commotion 
with  more  favor  than  before.  Poor  little  Desiree  came  in 
with  a  quivering  lip  and  a  full  eye,  scarcely  able  to  speak, 
but  determined  not  to  cry,  which  was  no  small  trial  of  res 
olution.  The  family  of  Melmar  were  her  mother's  enemies 
— some  of  them  had  tried  to  delude,  and  some  had  been 
unkind  to  herself — yet  she  knew  them ;  and  the  Mistress, 
who  came  to  take  her  away,  was  a  stranger.  It  was  like 
going  out  once  more  into  the  unknown  world. 

So  Desiree  left  Melmar,  with  a  heart  which  fluttered  with 
pain,  anger,  indignation,  and  a  strange  fear  of  the  future, 
and  the  Mistress  guided  to  Norlaw  almost  with  tenderness 
the  child  of  that  Mary  who  had  been  a  lifelong  vexation  to 
herself.  They  left  behind  them  no  small  amount  of  dismay 
and  anxiety,  all  the  house  vaguely  finding  out  that  some 
thing  was  wrong,  while  Joanna  alone  stood  by  her  father's 
side,  angry,  rude,  and  careless  of  every  one,  bestowing  her 
whole  impatient  regards  upon  him. 


CHAPTEE   LXII. 

"  HAPPENED  !"  said  bowed  Jaacob,  with  a  little  scorn ; 
"  what  should  have  happened  ? — you  dinna  ca'  this  place  in 
the  world — naething,  so  far  as  I  can  tell,  ever  happens  here 
except  births  and  deaths  and  marriages ;  no  muckle  food 
for  the  intelleck  in  the  like  of  them,  though  I  wouldna  say 
but  they  are  necessary  evils — na,  laddie,  there's  little  to  tell 
you  here." 

"  Not  even  about  the  Bill  ?"  said  Cosmo  ;  "  don't  forget 
I've  been  abroad  and  know  nothing  of  what  you've  all  been 
doing  at  home." 

"  The  Bill — humph !  it's  a'  very  weel  for  the  present," 
said  Jaacob,  with  a  twinkle  of  excitement  in  his  one  eye, 
"  but  as  for  thae  politicians  that  ca'  it  a  final  measure,  I 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOELAW.  311 

wouldna  gie  that  for  them,"  and  Jaacob  snapped  his  fingers 
energetically.  "It  hasria  made  just  a'  that  difference  in  the 
world  ane  would  have  expected,  either,"  he  added,  after  a 
moment,  a  certain  grim  humor  stealing  into  his  grotesque 
face;  "we're  a'  as  nigh  as  possible  just  where  we  were. 
I'm  no'  what  you  would  ca'  a  sanguine  philosopher  mysel'. 
I  ken  human  nature  gey  weel ;  and  I  canna  say  I  ever  lim 
ited  my  ain  faith  to  men  that  pay  rent  and  taxes  at  so 
muckle  a  year ;  but  it  doesna  make  that  difference  ane  might 
have  looked  for.  A  man's  just  the  same  man,  callant — es 
pecially  if  he's  a  poor  creature  with  nae  nobility  in  him — 
though  you  do  gie  him  a  vote." 

"  Yet  it's  all  the  difference,"  cried  Cosmo,  with  a  little 
burst  of  boyish  enthusiasm,  "  between  the  freeman  and  the 
slave !" 

Jaacob  eyed  him  grimly  with  his  one  eye.  "  It's  a'  the 
like  of  you  ken,"  said  the  cynic,  with  a  little  contempt,  and 
a  great  deal  of  superiority ;  "  but  you'll  learn  better  if  ye 
have  the  gift.  There's  a  certain  slave-class  in  ilka  com 
munity — that's  my  conviction — and  I  wouldna  say  but 
we've  just  had  the  good  fortune  to  licht  upon  them  in  thae 
ten-pound  householders  ;  oh,  ay,  laddie  !  let  the  aristocrats 
alane — they're  as  cunning  as  auld  Nick  where  their  ain  in 
terest's  concerned,  though  nae  better  than  as  mony  school 
boys  in  a'  greater  concerns-.  Catch  them  extending  the 
suffrage  to  the  real  men,  the  backbane  of  the  country ! 
Would  you  say  a  coof  in  the  town  here,  that  marries  some 
fool  of  a  wife  and  gets  a  house  of  his  ain,  was  a  mair  re 
sponsible  person  than  me  !  Take  it  in  ony  class  you  please 
— yoursel'  when  you're  aulder — na,  Me'mar's  son  even, 
that's  nearer  my  age  than  yours — ony  Willie  A'  thing  of  a 
shopkeeper  gets  his  vote — set  him  up  !  and  his  voice  in  the 
country — but  there's  nae  voice  for  you,  my  lad,  if  ye  were 
ane-and-twenty  the  morn — nor  for  the  young  laird." 

The  mention  of  this  name  instantly  arrested  Cosmo's 
indignation  at  his  own  political  disabilities.  "You  say 
nothing  has  happened,  Jacob,"  said  Cosmo,  "  and  yet  here 
is  this  same  young  laird — what  of  him  ? — is  he  nothing  ? — 
he  ought  to  rank  high  in  Kirkbride." 

"  Kirkbride  and  me  are  seldom  of  the  same  opinion," 
said  the  little  Cyclops,  pushing  his  red  cowl  off  his  brow, 
and  proceeding  carelessly  to  his  work,  which  had  been  sus- 


312  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

pended  during  the  more  exciting  conversation.  "Icanna 
be  fashed  with  weakly  folk,  women  or  men,  though  it's 
more  natural  in  a  woman.  There's  that  bit  thing  of  a  sis 
ter  of  his  with  the  pink  e'en — he's  ower  like  her  to  please 
me — but  he's  a  virtuoso.  I've  been  ca'ed  one  mysel.  I've 
mair  sympathy  with  a  traveled  man  than  thae  savages  here. 
You  see  I  wouldna  say  but  I  might  think  better  of  baith 
him  and  his  father  if  I'm  right  in  a  guess  o'  mine ;  and  I 
maun  admit  I'm  seldom  wrang  when  I  take  a  thing  into  my 
mind." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Cosmo,  eagerly. 

"  There's  a  young  lass  there,  a  governess,"  said  Jaacob  ; 
"  I  couldna  tell,  if  I  was  on  my  aith,  what's  out  of  the  way 
about  her.  She's  no'  to  ca'  very  bonnie,  and  as  for  wut, 
that's  no'  to  be  looked  for  in  woman — and  she's  French, 
though  I'm  above  prejudice  on  that  score;  but  there's  just 
something  about  her  reminds  me  whiles  of  another  person 
— though  no  mair  to  be  compared  in  ae  way  than  a  gowan 
to  a  rose.  I'm  no'  very  easy  attractit,  which  is  plain  to 
view,  seeing,  for  a'  I've  met  with,  I'm  no'  a  married  man, 
and  like  enough  never  will  be — but  I  maun  admit  I  was 
taken  with  her  mysel'." 

Cosmo's  face  was  crimson  with  suppressed  anger  and 
laughter  both  combined. 

"  How  dare  you  ?"  he  cried  at  last,  with  a  violent  and 
sudden  burst  of  the  latter  impulse.  Bowed  Jaacob  turned 
round  upon  him,  swelling  to  his  fullest  stature,  and  settling 
his  red  cowl  on  his  head  with  an  air  of  defiance,  yet  with  a 
remote  and  grim  consciousness  of  fun  in  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

"  Daur !"  exclaimed  the  gallant  hunchback.  "  Mind  what 
you  say,  my  lad !  Women  hae  ae  gift — they  aye  ken  merit 
when  they  see  it.  I've  kent  a  "hantle  in  my  day ;  but  the 
bonniest  of  them  a'  never  said  'How  daur  ye'  to  me." 

"  Very  well,  Jacob,"  said  Cosmo,  laughing ;  "  I  had  for 
gotten  your*successes.  But  what  of  this  young  lady  at 
Melmar,  and  your  guess  about  Oswald  Huntley  ?  I  know 
her,  and  I  am  curious  to  hear." 

"  Just  the  lad  yonder,  if  you  will  ken,  is  taken  with  her 
like  me — that's  a'.  I  advise  you  to  say  '  you  daur'  to  him," 
said  Jaacob,  shortly,  ending  his  words  with  a  prolonged 
chorus  of  hammering. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.*  313 

An  involuntary  and  unconscious  exclamation  burst  from 
Cosmo's  lips.  He  felt  a  burning  color  rise  over  his  face. 
Why,  he  could  not  tell ;  but  his  sudden  shock  of  consterna 
tion  and  indignant  resentment  quite  overpowered  his  com 
posure  for  the  moment — a  thrill  of  passionate  displeasure 
tingled  through  his  heart.  He  was  violently  impatient  of 
the  thought,  yet  could  not  tell  why.  » 

"  Whatfor  no  ?"  said  Jaacob.  "  I'm  nane  of  your  romantic 
men  mysel' — but  I've  just  this  ae  thing  to  say,  I  despise  a 
lad  that  thinks  on  the  penny  siller  when  a  woman's  in  the 
question.  I  wouldna  tak  a  wife  into  the  bargain  with  a 
wheen  lands  or  a  pickle  gear,  no'  if  she  was  a  king's 
daughter — though  she  might  be  that,  and  yet  be  nae  great 
things.  Na,  laddie,  a  man  that  has  the  heart  to  be  real 
downricht  in  love  has  aye  something  in  him,  take  my  word 
for't ;  and  even  auld  Me'mar  himsel' — " 

"The  old  villain!"  cried  Cosmo,  violently;  "the  mean 
old  rascal !  That  is  what  he  meant  by  bringing  her  here, 
(t  was  not  enough  to  wrong  the  mother,  but  he  must  delude 
the  child !  Be  quiet,  Jacob !  you  don't  know  the  old  gray- 
haired  villain !  They  ought  to  be  tried  for  conspiracy,  every 
one  of  them.  Love ! — it  is  profanation  to  name  the  name !" 

"Eh,  what's  a'  this?"  cried  Jaacob.  "What  does  the 
callant  mean  by  conspiracy? — what's  about  this  lassie? 
She's  gey  bonnie — no'  to  say  very,  but  gey — and  she's  just 
a  governess.  I  respect  the  auld  rascal,  as  you  ca'  him — and 
I  wouldna  say  you're  far  wrang — for  respecting  his  son's 
fancy.  The  maist  o'  thae  moneyed  men,  I  can  tell  ye,  are 
as  mean  as  an  auld  miser ;  therefore  ye  may  say  what  ye 
like,  my  lad.  I'm  friends  with  Me'mar  and  his  son  the  noo." 

Jaacob  went  on  accordingly  with  his  hammering,  profess 
ing  no  notice  of  Cosmo,  who,  busy  with  his  own  indignant 
thoughts,  did  not  even  observe  the  vigilant,  sidelong  regards 
of  the  blacksmith's  one  eye.  He  scarcely  even  heard  what 
Jaacob  said,  as  the  village  philosopher  resumed  his  mono 
logue,  keeping  always  that  solitary  orb  of  vision  intent  upon 
his  visitor.  Jaacob,  with  all  his  enlightenment,  was  nt>t 
above  curiosity,  and  took  a  very  lively  interest  in  the  human 
character  and  the  concerns  of  his  fellow-men. 

"And  the  minister's  dead,"  said  Jaacob.  "For  a  man 
that  had  nae  experience  of  life,  he  wasna  such  a  fuil  as  he 
might  have  been.  I've  seen  waur  priests.  The  vulgar  gave 

14 


314  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

him  honor,  and  it's  aye  desirable  to  have  a  man  in  that 
capacity  that  can  impose  upon  the  vulgar ; — and  the  bairns 
are  away.  I  miss  Katie  Logan's  face  about  the  town 
mysel'.  She  wasna  in  my  style;  but  I  canna  deny  her 
merits.  Mair  folks'  taste  than  mine  has  to  be  consulted. 
As  for  me,  I  have  rather  a  notion  of  that  French  governess 
at  Melmar.  If  therms  onything  wrang  there,  gie  a  man  a 
hint,  Cosmo,  lad.  I've  nae  objection  to  cut  Oswald  Huntley 
out  mysel'." 

"  Find  some  other  subject  for  your  jests,"  cried  Cosmo, 
haughtily ;  "  Mademoiselle  Desiree's  name  is  not  to  be  used 
in  village  gossip.  I  will  not  permit  it  while  I  am  here." 

Jaacob  turned  round  upon  him  with  his  eye  on  fire. 

"Wha  the  deevil  made  you  a  judge?"  said  Jaacob; 
"  what's  your  madame-oiselle,  or  you  either,  that  you're 
ower  guid  for  an  honest  man's  mouth?  Confound  your 
impidence !  a  slip  of  a  callant  that  makes  verses,  do  ye  set 
up  your  face  to  me  ?" 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Cosmo  began  to  have 
a  glimmering  perception  that  Desiree's  name  was  quite  as 
unsuitable  in  a  quarrel  with  Jaacob  as  in  any  supposed 
village  gossip ;  and  that  the  dispute  between  himself  and 
the  blacksmith  was  on  the  whole  somewhat  ridiculous.  He 
evaded  Jaacob's  angry  interrogatory  with  a  half  laugh  of 
annoyance  and  embarrassment. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Jacob,  that  one  should  not 
speak  so  of  young  ladies,"  said  Cosmo,  who  did  not  know 
what  to  say. 

"Do  I?"  said  Jaacob;  "what  would  ye  hae  a  man  to 
talk  about?  they're  no  muckle  to  crack  o'  in  the  way  o' 
wisdom,  but  they're  bonnie  objecks  in  creation,  as  a'body 
maun  allow.  I  would  just  like  to  ken,  though,  my  lad, 
what's  a'  your  particular  interest  in  this  madame-oiselle?" 

"  Hush,"  said  Cosmo,  whose  cheeks  began  to  burn ;  "  she 
is  my  kinswoman ;  by  this  time  perhaps  she  is  with  my 
mother  in  Norlaw ;  she  is  the  child  of — " 

Cosmo  paused,  thinking  to  stop  at  that  half-confidence. 
Jaacob  stood  staring  at  him,  with  his  red  cowl  on  one  side, 
and  his  eye  gleaming  through  the  haze.  As  he  gazed,  a 
certain  strange  consciousness  came  to  the  hunchback's  face. 
His  dwarf  figure,  which  you  could  plainly  see  had  the 
strength  of  a  giant's,  his  face  swart  and  grotesque,  his  one 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOBLAW.  315 

gleaming  eye  and  puckered  forehead,  became  suddenly 
softened  by  a  kind  of  homely  pathos  which  stole  over  them 
like  a  breath  of  summer  wind.  When  he  had  gazed  his  full 
gaze  of  inquiry  into  Cosmo's  face,  Jaacob  turned  his  head 
aside  hurriedly. 

"  So  you've  found  her !"  said  the  blacksmith,  with  a  low 
intensity  of  voice  which  made  Cosmo  respectful  %•  its  force 
and  emotion ;  and  when  he  had  spoken  he  fell  to  upon  his 
anvil  with  a  rough  and  loud  succession  of  blows  which  left 
no  time  for  an  answer.  Cosmo  stood  beside  him,  during 
this  assault,  with  a  grave  face,  looking  on  at  the  exploits  of 
the  hammer  as  if  they  were  something  serious  and  impor 
tant.  The  introduction  of  this  new  subject  changed  their 
tone  in  a  moment. 

When  Jaacob  paused  to  take  breath  he  resumed  the  con 
versation,  still  in  a  somewhat  subdued  tone,  though  briskly 
enough. 

"So  she's  aye  living,"  said  Jaacob;  "and  this  is  her 
daughter?  A  very  little  mair  insight  and  I  would  have 
found  it  out  mysel'.  I  aye  thought  she  was  like.  And 
what  have  you  done  with  her  now  you've  found  her  ?  Is 
she  to  come  hame?" 

"  Immediately,"  said  Cosmo. 

"  She's  auld  by  this  time,  nae  doubt,"  said  Jaacob,  care 
lessly;  "women  are  such  tender  gear,  a'thing  tells  upon 
them.  It's  their  beauty  that's  like  a  moth — the  like  of  me 
wears  langer ;  and  so  she's  aye  to  the  fore  ? — ay !  I  doubt 
she'll  mind  little  about  Me'mar,  or  the  folk  here  about. 
I'm  above  prejudices  mysel',  and  maybe  the  French  are 
mair  enlightened  in  twa  three  points  than  we  are — I'll  no' 
say — but  I  wouldna  bring  up  youngsters  to  be  natives  of  a 
strange  country.  So  you  found  her  out  with  your  ain  hand, 
callant,  did  you?  You're  a  clever  chield!  and  what's  to 
be  done  when  she  comes  hame  ?" 

"  She  is  the  Lady  of  Melmar,  as  she  always  was,"  said 
Cosmo,  with  a  little  pride. 

"  And  what's  to  become  of  the  auld  family — father  and 
son — no'  to  say  of  the  twa  sisters  and  the  auld  auntie,"  said 
Jaacob,  with  a  grim  smile.  "  So  that's  the  story !  Con 
found  them  a' !  I'm  no'  a  man  to  be  cheated  out  of  my 
sympathies.  And  I'm  seldom  wrang — so  if  you've  ony 
thoughts  that  way,  callant,  I  advise  ye  to  relinquish  them. 

%: 


316  THE    LAIKD     OF    NORLAW. 

Ye  may  be  half-a-hunder'  poets  if  ye  like,  and  as  mony  mair 
to  the  back  o'  that,  but  if  the  Huntley  lad  liket  her  she'll 
stick  to  him." 

"  That  is  neither  your  concern  nor  mine  !"  cried  Cosmo, 
loftily.  But,  as  Jaacob  laughed  and  went  on,  the  lad  began 
to  feel  unaccountably  aggravated,  to  lose  his  temper,  and 
make  angGy  answers,  which  made  his  discomfiture  capital 
fun  to  the  little  giant.  At  length,  Cosmo  hurried  away. 
It  was  the  same  day  on  which  the  Mistress  paid  her  visit  to 
Desiree,  and "  Cosmo  could  not  help  feeling  excited  and 
curious  about  the  issue  of  his  mother's  invitation.  Thoughts 
which  made  the  lad  blush  came  into  his  mind  as  he  went 
slowly  over  Tyne,  looking  up  at  that  high  bank,  from  which 
the  evening  sunshine,  chill,  yet  bright,  was  slowly  disappear 
ing — where  the  trees  began  to  bud  round  the  cottages,  and 
where  the  white  gable  of  the  manse  still  crowned  the  peace 
ful  summit — that  manse  where  Katie  Logan,  with  her  elder- 
sister  smile,  was  no  longer  mistress.  Somehow,  there  oc 
curred  to  him  a  wandering  thought  about  Katie,  who  was 
away — he  did  not  know  where — and  Huntley,  who  was  at 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  Huntley  had  not  actually  lost  any 
thing,  Cosmo  said  to  himself,  yet  Huntley  seemed  disin 
herited  and  impoverished  to  the  obstinate  eyes  of  fancy. 
Cosmo  could  not  have  told,  either,  why  he  associated  his 
brother  with  Katie  Logan,  now  an  orphan  and  absent,  yet 
he  did  so  involuntarily.  He  thought  of  Huntley  and  Katie, 
both  poor,  far  separated,  and  perhaps  never  to  meet  again  ; 
he  thought  of  Cameron  in  his  sudden  trouble  ;  and  then  his 
thoughts  glided  off,  with  a  little  bitterness,  to  that  perverse 
woman's  love,  which  always  seemed  to  cling  to  the  wrong 
object.  Madame  Roche  herself,  perhaps,  first  of  all,  though 
the  very  fancy  seemed  somehow  a  wrong  to  his  mother, 
Marie  fretting  peevishly  for  her  French  husband,  Desiree 
giving  her  heart  to  Oswald  Huntley.  The  lad  turned  upon 
his  heel  with  a  bitter  impatience,  and  set  off  for  a  long  walk 
in  the  opposite  direction  as  these  things  glided  into  his 
rairid.  To  be  sure,  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  but  still 
it  was  all  wrong — a  distortion-  of  nature — and  it  galled  him 
in  his  thoughts. 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW. 


CHAPTER    LXIII. 

THE  presence  of  Desiree  made  no  small  sensation  in  the 
house  of  Norlaw,  which  did  not  quite  know  what  to  make 
of  her.  The  Mistress  herself,  after  that  first  strange  im 
pulse  of  kin  and  kindness  which  prompted  her  to  bring  the 
young  stranger  home,  relapsed  into  her  usual  ways,  and 
did  not  conceal  from  either  son  or  servant  that  she  ex 
pected  to  be  "  fashed "  by  the  little  Frenchwoman ;  while 
Marget,  rather  displeased  that  so  important  a  step  should 
be  taken  without  her  sanction,  and  mightily  curious  to 
know  the  reason,  was  highly  impatient  at  first  of  Desiree's 
name  and  nation,  and  discontented  with  her  presence  here. 

"I  canna  faddom  the  Mistress,"  said  Marget,  angrily; 
"  what  she's  thinking  upon,  to  bring  a  young  flirt  of  a 
Frenchwoman  into  this  decent  house,  and  ane  of  our  lads  at 
home  is  just  beyond  me.  Do  I  think  her  bonnie  ?  No'  me  ! 
She's  French,  and  I  daur  to  say,  a  papisher  to  the  boot ;  but 
the  lads  will,  take  my  word  for  it — callants  are  aye  keen 
about  a  thing  that's  outray.  I'm  just  as  thankfu'  as  I  can 
be  that  Huntley's  at  the  other  end  of  the  world — there's  nae 
fears  of  our  Patie — and  Cosmo,  you  see,  he's  ower  young." 

This  latter  proposition  Marget  repeated  to  herself  as  she 
went  about  her  dairy.  It  did  not  seem  an  entirely  satisfac 
tory  statement  of  the  case,  for  if  Cosmo  was  too  young  to 
be  injured,  Desiree  was  also  a  couple  of  years  his  junior,  and 
could  scarcely  be  supposed  old  enough  to  do  any  great 
harm. 

"  Ay,  but  it's  in  them  frae  their  cradle,"  said  the  unchari 
table  Marget,  as  she  rinsed  her  great  wooden  bowls  and 
set  them  ready  for  the  milk.  The  honest  retainer  of  the 
family  was  quite  disturbed  by  this  new  arrival.  She  could 
not  "  get  her  mouth  about  the  like  of  thae  outlandish 
names,"  so  she  never  called  Desiree  any  thing  but  Miss, 
which  title  in  Marget's  lips,  unassociated  with  a  Christian 
name,  was  by  no  means  a  title  of  high  respect,  and  she 
grumbled  as  she  was  quite  unwont  to  grumble,  over  the 
additional  trouble  of  another  inmate.  Altogether  Marget 
was  totally  dissatisfied. 


318  THE    LA1ED    OP    NORLAW. 

While  Desiree,  suddenly  dropped  into  this  strange  house, 
every  custom  of  which  was  strange  to  her,  and  where  girl 
hood  and  its  occupations  were  unknown,  felt  somewhat  for 
lorn  and  desolate,  it  must  be  confessed,  and  sometimes  even 
longed  to  be  back  again  in  Melmar,  where  there  were  many 
women,  and  where  her  pretty  needle-works  and  graceful 
accomplishments  were  not  reckoned  frivolous,  the  Mistress 
was  busy  all  day  long,  and  when  she  had  ended  her  house 
hold  employments,  sat  down  with  her  work-basket  to  mend 
shirts  or  stockings  with  a  steadiness  which  did  not  care  to 
accept  any  assistance. 

"  Thank  you,  they're  for  my  son,  Huntley  ;  I  like  to  do 
them  a'  mysel',"  she  would  answer  to  Desiree's  offer  of  aid. 
"  Much  obliged  to  you,  but  Cosmo's  stockings,  poor  callant, 
are  no  work  for  the  like  of  you."  In  like  manner,  Desiree 
was  debarred  from  the  most  trifling  assistance  in  the  house. 
Marget  was  furious  when  she  ventured  to  wash  the  Mis 
tress's  best  tea-service,  or  to  sweep  the  hearth  on  occasion. 

"  Na,  miss,  we're  no'  come  to  that  pass  in  Norlaw  that  a 
stranger  visitor  needs  to  file  her  fingers,"  said  Marget, 
taking  the  brush  from  Desiree's  hand  ;  so  that,  condemned 
to  an  uncomfortable  idleness  in  the  midst  of  busy  people,  and 
aware  that  the  Mistress's  "Humph!"  on  one  occasion,  at 
least,  referred  to  her  pretty  embroideries,  poor  little  Desiree 
found  little  better  for  it  than  to  wander  round  and  round 
the  old  castle  of  Norlaw,  and  up  the  banks  of  Tyne, 
where,  to  say  truth,  Cosmo  liked  nothing  better  than  to 
wander  along  with  her,  talking  about  her  mother,  about 
St.  Ouen,  about  his  travels,  about  every  thing  in  earth  and 
heaven. 

And  whether  Cosmo  was  "  ower  young"  remains  to  be 
seen. 

But  Desiree  had  not  been  long  in  Norlaw  when  letters 
came  from  Madame  Roche,  one  to  the  Mistress,  brief  yet 
effusive,  thanking  that  reserved  Scottish  woman  for  her 
kindness  to  "  my  little  one ;"  another  to  Cosmo,  in  which 
he  was  called  my  child  and  my  friend  so  often,  that  though 
he  was  pleased,  he  was  yet  half  ashamed  to  show  the  epistle 
to  his  mother ;  and  a  third  to  Desiree  herself.  This  was  the 
most  important  of  the  three,  and  contained  Madame  Roche's 
scheme  of  poetic  justice.  This  is  what  the  Scotch-French 
mother  said  to  little  Desiree : — 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NOEL  AW.  319 

"My  child,  we,  who  have  been  so  poor,  are  coming  to  a 
great  fortune.  It  is  as  strange  as  a  romance,  and  we  can 
never  forget  how  it  has  come  to  us.  Ay,  my  Desiree,  what 
noble  hearts !  what  princely  young  men !  Despite  of  our  good 
fortune,  my  heart  bleeds  for  the  generous  Huntley,  for  it  is 
he  who  is  disinherited.  Must  this  be,  my  child  ?  He  is  far 
away,  he  knows  not  we  are  found;  he  will  return  to  find 
his  inheritance  gone.  But  I  have  trained  'my  Desiree  to 
love  honor  and  virtue,  and  to  be  generous  as  the  Living 
stones.  Shall  I  say  to  you,  my  child,  what  would  glad  my 
heart  most  to  see  ?  Our  poor  Marie  has  thrown  away  her 
happiness  and  her  liberty ;  she  can  not  reward  any  man, 
however  noble  ;  she  can  not  make  any  compensation  to  those 
whom  we  must  supplant,  and  her  heart  wanders  after  that 
vagabond,  that  abandoned  one !  But  my  Desiree  is  young,  only 
a  child,  and  has  not  begun  to  think  of  lovers.  My  love,  keep 
your  little  heart  safe  till  Huntley  returns — your  mother  bids 
you,  Desiree.  Look  not  at  any  one,  think  not  of  any  one,  till 
you  have  seen  this  noble  Huntley ;  it  is  the  only  return  you 
can  give — nay,  my  little  one  !  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  prove  that 
I  am  not  ungrateful.  This  Melmar,  which  I  had  lost  and 
won  without  knowing  it,  will  be  between  Marie  and  you 
when  I  die.  You  can  not  give  it  all  back  to  your  kinsman, 
but  he  will  think  that  half  which  your  sister  has  doubly 
made  up,  my  child,  when  I  put  into  his  hand  the  hand  of 
my  Desiree  ;  and  we  shall  all  love  each  other,  and  be  good 
and  happy,  like  a  fairy  tale. 

"  This  is  your  mamma's  fondest  wish,  my  pretty  one  :  you 
must  keep  your  heart  safe,  you  must  love  Huntley,  you 
must  give  him  back  half  of  the  inheritance.  My  poor  Marie 
and  I  shall  live  together,  and  you  shall  be  near  us  ;  and  then 
no  one  will  be  injured,  but  all  shall  have  justice.  I  would  I 
had  another  little  daughter  for  the  good  Cosmo,  who  found 
me  out  in  St.  Ouen.  I  love  the  boy,  and  he  shall  be  with 
us  when  he  pleases,  and  we  will  do  for  him  all  we  can.  But 
keep  your  heart  safe,  my  Desiree,  for  Huntley,  and  thus  let 
us  reward  him  when  he  comes  home." 

Poor  Madame  Roche  !  she  little  knew  what  a  fever  of  dis 
pleasure  and  indignation  this  pretty  sentimental  letter^  of 
hers  would  rouse  in  her  little  daughter's  heart.  Desiree 
tore  the  envelope  in  pieces  in  her  first  burst  of  vexation, 
which  was  meant  to  express  by  similitude  that  she  would 


320  THE    LAIRD    OF    NOELAW. 

have  torn  the  letter,  and  blotted  out  its  injunctions,  if  she 
dared.  She  threw  the  epistle  itself  out  of  her  hands  as  if 
it  had  stung  her.  Not  that  Desiree's  mind  was  above 
those  sublime  arrangements  of  poetic  justice,  which  in  this 
inconsequent  world  are  always  so  futile ;  but,  somehow,  a 
plan  which  might  have  looked  pretty  enough  had  it  con 
cerned  another,  filled  Madame  Roche's  independent  little 
daughter  with  the  utmost  shame  and  mortification  when  she 
herself  was  the  heroine. 

"  Let  him  take  it  all !"  she  cried  out  half  aloud  to  herself, 
in  her  little  chamber.  "  Do  I  care  for  it  ?  I  will  work — I 
will  be  a  governess ;  but  I  will  not  sell  myself  to  this  Hunt- 
ley — no,  not  if  I  should  die !" 

And  having  so  recorded  her  determination,  poor  little 
Desiree  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  had  a  hearty  cry,  and 
after  that  thought,  with  a  girlish  effusion  of  sympathy,  of 
poor  Cosmo,  who,  after  all,  had  done  it  all,  yet  whom  no 
one  thought  of  compensating.  When  straightway  there 
came  into  Desiree's  heart  some  such  bitter  thoughts  of  jus 
tice  and  injustice  as  once  had  filled  the  mind  of  Cosmo  Liv 
ingstone.  Huntley ! — what  had  Huntiey  done  that  Madame 
Roche  should  dedicate  her — her,  an  unwilling  Andromeda, 
to  compensate  this  unknown  monster ;  and  Desiree  sprang 
up  and  stamped  her  little  foot,  and  clapped  her  hands,  and 
vowed  that  no  force  in  the  world,  not  even  her  mother's 
commands,  should  compel  her  to  show  her  mother's  grati 
tude  by  becoming  Huntley's  wife. 

A  most  unnecessary  passion  ;  for  there  was  Katie  Logan 
all  the  time,  unpledged  and  unbetrothed,  it  is  true,  but 
thinking  her  own  thoughts  of  some  one  far  away,  who  might 
possibly  break  in  some  day  upon  those  cares  of  elder-sister 
hood,  which  made  her  as  important  as  a  many-childed 
mother,  even  in  those  grave  days  of  her  orphan  youth  ;  and 
there  was  Huntley  in  his  hut  in  the  bush,  not  thriving  over 
well,  poor  fellow,  thinking  very  little  of  Meltnar,  but  think 
ing  a  great  deal  of  that  manse  parlor,  where  the  sun  shone, 
and  Katie  darned  her  children's  stockings — a  scene  which 
always  would  shine,  and  never  could  dim  out  of  the  young 
man's  recollection.  Poor  Madame  Roche,  with  her  pretty 
plan  of  compensation,  and  poor  Desiree,  rebelliously  resistant 
to  it,  how  much  trouble  they  might  both  have  saved  them 
selves,  could  some  kind  fairy  have  shown  to  them  a  single 
peep  of  Huntley  Livingstone's  solitary  thoughts. 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW  321 


CHAPTEK    LXIV. 

FIVE  years  had  made  countless  revolutions  in  human  af 
fairs,  and  changed  the  order  of  things  in  more  houses  than 
Melmar,  but  had  not  altered  the  fair  face  of  the  country, 
when,  late  upon  a  lovely  June  evening,  two  travelers  alight 
ed  from  the  coach  at  the  door  of  the  Norlaw  Arms.  They 
were  not  anglers,  nor  tourists,  though  they  were  both 
bronzed  and  bearded.  The  younger  of  the  two  looked 
round  him  with  eager  looks  of  recognition,  directing  his 
glances  to  particular  points — a  look  very  different  from  the 
stranger's  vague  gaze  at  every  thing,  which  latter  was  in  the 
eyes  of  his  companion.  At  the  manse,  where  the  white  ga 
ble  was  scarcely  visible  through  the  thick  foliage  of  the  great 
pear-tree — at  the  glimmering  twilight  path  through  the 
fields  to  Norlaw — even  deep  into  the  corner  of  the  village 
street,  where  bowed  Jaacob,  with  his  red  cowl  pushed  up 
from  his  bullet  head  behind,  stood,  strongly  relieved  against 
the  glow  with^  at  the  smithy  door.  To  all  these  familiar 
features  of  the  scene,  tb.c  jevV-Cuiner  turned  repeated  and 
eager  glances.  There  was  an  individual  recognition  in  every 
look  he  gave  as  he  sprang  down  from  the  top  of  the  coach, 
and  stood  by  with  a  certain  friendly,  happy  impatience  and 
restlessness,  not  easy  to  describe,  while  the  luggage  was  be 
ing  unpacked  from  the  heavy-laden  public  conveyance  ;  that 
was  a  work  of  time.  Even  now,  in  railway  days,  it  is  not 
so  easy  a  matter  to  get  one's  portmanteau  embarked  or  dis- 
enf,  irked  at  Kirkbride  station  as  one  might  suppose ;  and 
the  L  .Jpers  at  the  Norlaw  Arms  were  innocent  of  the  stim 
ulus  "and  external  pressure  of  an  express  train.  They  made 
a  quantity  of  bustle,  but  did  their  business  at  their  leisure, 
while  this  new  arrival,  whom  none  of  them  knew,  kept  look 
ing  at  them  all  with  their  names  upon  his  lips,  and  laughter 
:M  ^indness  in  his  eyes.  He  had  "  seen  the  world,"  since 
h'e  last  saw  these  leisurely  proceedings  at  the  Norlaw  Arms 
— he  had  been  on  the  other  side  of  this  big  globe  since  he 
last  stood  in  the  street  of  Kirkbride  ;  and  the  young  man 
could  not  help  feeling  himself  a  more  important  person  now 
than  when  he  set  out  by  this  same  conveyance  some  seven 
years  ago,  to  make  his  fortune  and  his  way  in  the  world. 

14* 


322  THE    LAJRD     OF    NORLAW. 

Huntley  Livingstone,  however,  had  not  made  his  fortune  ; 
but  he  had  made  what  he  thought  as  much  of— a  thousand 
pounds ;  and  having  long  ago,  with  a  tingle  of  disappoint 
ment  and  a  flush  of  pride,  renounced  all  hopes  of  the 
Melmar  which  belonged  to  Madame  Roche,  had  decided, 
when  this  modest  amount  of  prosperity  came  to  him,  that 
he  could  not  do  better  than  return  to  his  homely  little 
patrimony,  and  lay  out  his  Australian  gains  upon  the  land 
at  home.  It  is  true  we  might  have  told  all  this  much  more 
dramatically  by  bringing  home  the  adventurer  unexpected 
ly  to  his  mother,  and  leaving  him  to  announce  his  riches  by 
word  of  mouth.  But  Huntley  was  too  good  a  son  to  make 
dramatic  surprises.  When  he  made  his  thousand  pounds, 
he  wrote  the  Mistress  word  of  it  instantly — and  he  was  not 
unexpected.  The  best  room  in  Norlaw  was  prepared  a 
week  ago.  It  was  only  the  day  and  hour  of  his  return 
which  the  Mistress  did  not  know. 

So  Huntley  stood  before  the  Norlaw  Arms,  while  the 
gray  twilight,  which  threw  no  shadows,  fell  over  that 
leaf-covered  gable  of  the  manse ;  and  gradually  the  young 
man's  thoughts  fell  into  reverie  even  in  the  moment  and 
excitement  of  arrival.  Katie  Logan!  she  was  not  bound  to 
him  by  the  faintest  far-away  implication  of  a  promise.  It 
was  seven  years  now  since  Huntley  bade  her  farewell. 
Where  was  the  orphan  elder-sister,  with  her  little  group  of 
orphan  children  now  ? 

Huntley's  companion  was  as  much  unlike  himself  as  one 
human  creature  could  be  unlike  another.  He  was  a  French 
man,  with  shaved  cheeks  and  a  black  moustache,  lank,  long 
locks  of  black  hair  falling  into  one  of  his  eyes,  and  a  thin, 
long,  oval  face.  He  was  in  short — except  that  he  had  no 
habit  de  bal,  no  white  waistcoat,  no  bouquet  in  his  button 
hole — a  perfect  type  of  the  ordinary  Frenchman  whom  one 
sees  in  every  British  concert-room  as  the  conductor  of  an 
orchestra  or  the  player  of  a  fiddle.  This  kind  of  man  does 
not  look  a  very  fine  specimen  of  humanity  in  traveler's 
dress,  and  with  the  dust  of  a  journey  upon  him.  Huntley 
was  covered  with  dust,  but  Huntley  did  not  look  dirty ; 
Huntley  was  roughly  attired,  had  a  beard,  and  was  some 
what  savage  in  his  appearance,  but,  notwithstanding,  was  a 
well-complexioned,  pure-skinned  Briton,  who  bore  the  soil 
of  travel  upon  his  surface  only,  which  was  not  at  all  the  case 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW.  823 

with  his  neighbor.  This  stranger,  however,  was  sufficiently 
familiar  with  his  traveling-companion  to  strike  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  dispel  his  thoughts  about  Katie. 

"  Where  am  I  to  go  ?  to  this  meeserable  little  place  ?" 
asked  the  Frenchman,  speaking  perfectly  good  English,  but 
dwelling  upon  the  adjective  by  way  of  giving  it  emphasis, 
and  pointing  at  the  moment  with  his  dirty  forefinger,  on 
which  he  wore  a  ring,  to  the  Norlaw  Arms. 

Huntley  was  a  Scotsman,  strong  in  the  instinct  of  hospi 
tality,  but  he  was  at  the  same  time  the  son  of  a  reserved 
mother,  and  hated  the  intrusion  of  strangers  at  the  moment 
of  his  return. 

"  It's  a  very  good  inn  of  its  kind,"  said  Huntley,  uneasily, 
turning  round  to  look  at  it.  The  Frenchman  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  eyed  the  respectable  little  house  with  con 
tempt. 

"  Ah !  bah !  of  its  kind — I  believe  it,"  said  the  stranger, 
kicking  away  a  poor  little  dog  which  stood  looking  on  with 
serious  interest,  and  waiting  for  the  fresh  start  of  the  coach ; 
"  I  perceive  your  house  is  a  chateau,  an  estate,  my  friend," 
he  continued;  "is  there  no  little  room  you  can  spare  a 
comrade?  I  come  on  a  good  errand,  the  most  virtuous, 
the  most  honest !  Madame,  your  mother,  will  give  me  her 
blessing — I  go  to  seek  my  wife." 

Huntley  turned  away  to  look  after  his  trunks,  but  the 
stranger  followed  with  a  pertinacity  which  prevailed  over 
Huntley.  He  gave  a  reluctant  invitation  at  last,  was 
restored  to  better  humor  by  a  sudden  recognition  from  the 
landlord  of  the  ISTorlaw  Arms,  and  after  pausing  to  receive 
the  greetings  and  congratulations  of  everybody  within 
hearing,  set  off,  hastily  accompanied  by  the  Frenchman. 
Huntley  endured  his  companion  with  great  impatience, 
especially  as  they  came  within  sight  of  home,  and  all  the 
emotions  connected  with  that  familiar  place  rushed  to  the 
young  man's  heart  and  to  his  eyes.  The  Frenchman's  voice 
ran  on,  an  impertinent  babble,  while  the  gray  old  castle, 
the  quiet  house,  with  its  pale  vane  pointing  to  the  north, 
and  the  low  hill-side,  rustling  to  its  summit  with  green  corn, 
lay  once  more  before  the  eyes  which  loved  them  better  than 
any  other  landscape  in  the  world.  Then  a  figure  became 
visible  going  in  and  out  at  the  kitchen-door,  a  tall,  angular 
form,  with  the  "kilted"  gown,  the  cap  with  its  string 


324  TUB     LAIKD     OP    NOEL  AW. 

pinned  back,  the  little  shawl  over  the  shoulders,  all  of  which 
homely  details  Huntley  remembered  so  well.  The  young 
man  quickened  his  pace,  and  held  out  his  hands  uncon 
sciously.  And  then  Marget  saw  him ;  she  threw  down  her 
milk-pail,  arched  her  hand  over  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to 
gaze  at  him  and  assure  herself,  and  then  with  a  loud,  wild 
exclamation,  rushed  into  the  house.  Huntley  remembered 
no  more,  either  guest  or  hospitality ;  he  rushed  down  the 
little  bank  which  intervened,  splashed  through  the  shallow 
Tyne,  too  much  excited  to  take  the  bridge,  and  reached  the 
door  of  Norlaw,  as  the  Mistress,  with  her  trembling  hands, 
flung  it  unsteadily  open  to  look  for  herself,  and  see  that 
Marget  was  wrong.  Too  much  joy  almost  fainted  the  heart 
of  the  Mistress  within  her ;  she  could  not  speak  to  him — 
she  could  only  sob  out  big,  slow  sobs,  which  fell  echoing 
through  the  still  air  with  the  strangest  pathos  of  thanks 
giving.  Huntley  had  come  home. 

"  So  you  werna  wrang,  as  it  happened,"  said  the  Mistress, 
with  dignity,  when  she  had  at  last  become  familiar  with  the 
idea  of  Huntley's  return,  and  had  contented  her  eye  with 
gazing  on  him ;  "  you  werna  wrang  after  a' ;  but  I  certainly 
thought  that  myself,  and  me  only,  would  be  the  person  to 
get  the  first  sight  of  my  bairn.  He  minded  you  too,  very 
well,  Marget,  which  was  less  wonder  than  you  minding  him, 
and  him  such  a  grown  man  with  such  a  black  beard.  I 
didna  believe  ye,  it's  true,  but  it  was  a'  because  I  thought 
no  person  could  mind  upon  him  to  ken  him  at  a  distance, 
but  only  me." 

"  Mind !"  cried  Marget,  moved  beyond  ordinary  patience ; 
"  did  I  no'  carry  the  bairn  in  my  arms  when  he  was  just  in 
coats  and  put  his  first  breeks  upon  him  !  Mind  ! — me  that 
have  been  about  Norlaw  House  seven-and-twenty  years 
come  Martinmas — wha  should  mind  if  it  wasna  me?" 

But  though  this  speech  was  almost  concluded  before  the 
Mistress  left  the  kitchen,  it  was  not  resented.  The  mother's 
mind  was  too  full  of  Huntley  to  think  of  any  thing  else. 
She  returned  to  the  dining-parlor,  where,  in  the  first  effusion 
of  her  joy,  she  had  placed  her  first-born  in  his  father's  chair, 
and  began  to  spread  the  table  with  her  own  hands  for  his 
refreshment.  As  yet  she  had  scarcely  taken  any  notice  of 
the  Frenchman.  Now  his  voice  startled  her ;  she  looked  at 
him  angrily,  and  then  at  her  son.  He  was  not  quite  such  a 


THE    LAIKD     OF     NOEL  AW.  325 

person  as  fathers  and  mothers  love  to  see  in  the  company  of 
their  children. 

"  N"o  doubt,  Huntley,"  said  the  Mistress,  at  last,  with  a 
little  impatient  movement  of  her  head — "  no  doubt  this  gen 
tleman  is  some  great  friend  of  yours,  to  come  hame  with 
you  the  very  first  day,  and  you  been  seven  years  from 
home." 

"  Ah !  my  good  friend  Huntley  is  troubled,  madame," 
interposed  the  subject  of  her  speech;  "I  have  come  to  seek 
my  wife.  I  have  heard  she  is  in  Scotland — she  is  near  ;  and 
I  did  ask  for  one  little  room  in  his  castle  rather  than  go  to 
the  inn  in  the  village.  For  I  must  ask  you  for  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  ?  what  should  I  know  about  strange  men's 
wives  ?"  said  the  Mistress  ;  "  Huntley's  friends  have  a  good 
right  to  be  welcome  at  Norlaw ;  but  to  tell  the  truth  he's 
new  come  home  and  I'm  little  accustomed  to  strangers. 
You  used  to  ken  that,  Huntley,  laddie,  though  you've  may 
be  forgotten  now ;  seven  years  is  a  long  time." 

"  My  wife,"  resumed  the  Frenchman,  "  came  to  possess  a 
great  fortune  in  this  country.  I  have  been  a  traveler,  mad 
ame.  I  hare  come  with  your  son  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  I  have  been  bon  camarade.  But  see  !  I  have  lost 
my  wife.  Since  I  am  gone  she  has  found  a  fortune,  she  has 
left  her  country,  she  is  here,  if  I  knew  where  to  find  her. 
Madame  Pierrot,  my  wife." 

"  I'm  little  acquaint  with  French  ladies,"  said  the  Mistress, 
briefly ;  but  as  she  spoke  she  turned  from  her  occupation 
to  look  full  at  her  strange  visitor  with  eyes  a  -little  curious 
and  even  disquieted.  The  end  of  her  investigation  was  a 
"  humph,"  which  was  sufficiently  significant.  After  that  she 
turned  her  back  upon  him  and  went  on  with  her  prepara 
tions,  looking  somewhat  stormy  at  Huntley.  Then  her  im 
patience  displayed  itself  under  other  disguises.  In  the  first 
place  she  set  another  chair  for  him  at  the  table. 

"  Take  you  this  seat,  Huntley,  my  man,"  said  the  Mistress ; 
"  and  the  foot  of  the  table,  like  the  master  of  the  house ;  for 
doubtless  Norlaw  is  yours  for  any  person  it's  your  pleasure 
to  bring  into  it.  Sit  in  to  the  table,  and  eat  your  supper 
like  a  man  ;  and  I'll  put  this  back  out  of  the  way." 

Accordingly,  when  Huntley  rose,  his  mother  wheeled  back 
the  sacred  chair  which  she  had  given  him  in  her  joy. 
Knowing  how  innocent  he  was  of  all  friendship  with  his  com- 


326  THE    LAIRD     OF   NOEL  AW. 

panion,  Huntley  almost  smiled  at  this  sign  of  her  displeasure, 
but,  when  she  left  the  room,  followed  her  to  explain  how  it 
was. 

"  I  asked  him  most  ungraciously  and  unwillingly,"  said 
poor  Huntley ;  "  don't  be  displeased  on  account  of  that  fel 
low  ;  he  came  home  with  me  from  Australia,  and  I  lost  sight 
of  him  in  London,  only  to  find  him  again  coming  here  by 
the  same  coach.  I  actually  know  nothing  about  him  except 
his  name." 

"  But  I  do,"  said  the  Mistress. 

"  You,  mother  ?" 

"  Ay,  just  me,  mother  ;  and  a  vagabond  he  is,  as  ony  per 
son  may  well  see,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  I  ken  mair  than  folk 
think ;  and  now  go  back  for  a  foolish  bairn  as  you  are,  in 
spite  of  your  black  beard.  Though  I  never  saw  the  black 
guard  before,  a'  my  days,  I'll  tell  you  his  haill  story  this  very 
night." 


CHAPTEK    LXV. 

IT  was  Saturday  night,  and  in  little  more  than  an  hour 
after  Huntley's  return,  Cosmo  had  joined  the  little  family 
circle.  Cosmo  was  five  years  older  by  this  time,  three-and- 
twenty  years  eld,  a  man  and  not  a  boy  ;  such  at  least  was  his 
own  opinion — but  his  mother  and  he  were  not  quite  so  cordial 
and  united  as  they  had  been.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  only 
while  her  sons  were  young,  that  a  spirit  so  hasty  and  arbi 
trary  as  that  of  the  Mistress  could  keep  in  harmony  with  so 
many  independent  minds  ;  but  her  youngest  son  had  disap 
pointed  and  grieved  her.  Cosmo  had  relinquished  those 
studies  which  for  a  year  or  two  flattered  his  mother  with  the 
hope  of  seeing  her  son  a  minister  and  pillar  of  the  Church. 
The  Mistress  thought,  with  some  bitterness,  that  his  travels 
had  permanently  unsettled  her  boy  ;  even  his  verses  began 
to  flag  by  this  time,  and  it  was  only  once  in  three  or  four 
months  that  Mrs.  Livingstone  received,  with  any  thing  like 
satisfaction,  her  copy  of  the  Auld  Reekie,  Magazine.  She 
did  not  know  what  he  was  to  be,  or  how  he  was  to  live  ;  at 


THE    LAIRD    OF    1NORLAW.  327 

present  ne  held  "  a  situation" — of  which  his  mother  was  bit 
terly  contemptuous — in  the  office  of  Mr.  Todhunter,  and  ex 
ercised  the  caprices  of  his  more  fastidious  taste  in  a  partial 
editorship  of  the  little  magazine,  which  had  already  lost  its 
first  breath  of  popularity.  And  though  he  came  out  from 
Edinburgh  dutifully  every  Saturday  to  spend  the  day  of  rest 
with  his  mother,  that  exacting  and  impatient  household  ruler 
was  very  far  from  being  satisfied.  She  received  him  with  a 
certain  angry,  displeased  affectionateness,  and  even  in  the 
presence  of  her  newly-arrived  son,  kept  a  jealous  watch  upon 
the  looks  and  words  of  Cosmo.  Huntley  could  not  help 
watching  the  scene  with  some  wonder  and  curiosity.  Sit 
ting  in  that  well-remembered  room,  which  the  two  candles 
on  the  table  lighted  imperfectly,  with  the  soft  night  air 
blowing  in  through  the  open  window  in  the  corner,  from 
which  the  Mistress  had  been  used  to  watch  the  kitchen  door, 
and  at  which  now  her  son  sat  looking  out  upon  the  old  cas 
tle  and  the  calm  sky  above  it,  where  the  stars  blossomed  out 
one  by  one — Huntley  watched  his  mother,  placing,  from 
mere  use  and  wont,  her  work-basket  on  the  table,  and  seat 
ing  herself  to  the  work  which  she  was  much  too  impatient 
to  make  any  progress  with — launching  now  and  then  a  sa 
tirical  and  utterly  incomprehensible  remark  at  the  French 
man,  who  yawned  openly,  and  repented  Jiis  contempt  for 
the  Norlaw  Arms — sometimes  asking  hasty  questions  of 
Cosmo,  which  he  answered  not  without  a  little  kindred  im 
patience — often  rising  to  seek  something  or  lay  something 
by,  and  pausing  as  she  passed  by  Huntley's  chair  to  linger 
over  him  with  a  half  expressed,  yet  inexpressible  tenderness. 
There  was  change,  yet  there  was  no  change  in  the  Mistress. 
She  had  a  tangible  reason  for  some  of  the  old  impatience 
which  was  natural  to  her  character,  but  that  was  all. 

At  length  the  evening  came  to  an  end.  Huntley's  un 
comfortable  companion  sauntered  out  to  smoke  his  cigar,  and 
coming  back  again  was  conducted  up  stairs  to  his  room,  with 
a  rather  imperative  politeness.  Then  the  Mistress,  coming 
back,  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dining-parlor,  looking  in  upon 
her  sons.  The  shadows  melted  from  her  face,  and  her  heart 
swelled,  as  she  looked  at  them.  Pride,  joy,  tenderness  con 
tended  with  her,  and  got  the  better  for  a  moment. 


look 


"  God  send  you  be  as  well  in  your  hearts  as  you  are  to 
)k  upon,  laddies  !"  she  said,  hurriedly  ;  and  then  came  in 


328  THE    LAIED     OF    NOKLAW. 

to  sit  down  at  the  table  and  call  them  nearer  for  their  first 
precious  family  hour  of  mutual  confidence  and  reunion. 

"  Seven  years,  Huntley  ?  I  canna  think  it's  seven  years 
— though  they've  been  long  enough  and  slow  enough,  every 
one ;  but  we've  thriven  at  Norlaw,"  said  the  Mistress, 
proudly.  "There's  guid  honest  siller  at  the  bank,  and  bet 
ter  than  siller  in  the  byre,  and  no'  a  mortal  man  to  call  this 
house  his  debtor,  Huntley  Livingstone !  which  is  a  change 
from  the  time  you  gaed  away." 

"  Thanks  to  your  cares  and  labors,  mother,"  said  Huntley. 

"  Thanks  to  no  such  thing.  Am  I  a  hired  servant  that 
ye  say  such  words  to  me  ?  but  thanks  to  Him  that  gives 
the  increase,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  though  we're  no'  like  to 
show  our  gratitude  as  I  once  thought,"  and  she  threw  a 
quick  side-glance  at  Cosmo  ;  "  but  Huntley,  my  man,  have 
ye  naething  to  tell  of  yourself?" 

"  Much  more  to  ask  than  to  tell,"  said  Huntley,  growing 
red  and  anxious,  but  making  an  effort  to  control  himself,  "  for 
you  know  all  of  the  little  that  has  happened  to  me  already, 
mother.  Thankless  years  enough  they  have  been.  To 
think  of  working  hard  so  long  and  gaining  nothing,  and  to 
make  all  that  I  have  at  last  by  what  looks  like  a  mere 
chance  !" 

"  So  long !  What  does  the  laddie  call  long  ? — many  a 
man  works  a  lifetime,"  said  the  Mistress,  "  and  even  then 
never  gets  the  chance  ;  and  it's  only  the  like  of  you  at  your 
time  of  life  that's  aye  looking  for  something  to  happen. 
For  them  that's  out  of  their  youth,  life's  far  canniest  when 
naething  happens — though  it  is  hard  to  tell  how  that  can  be 
either  where  there's  bairns.  There's  been  little  out  of  the 
way  here  since  this  callant,  Cosmo,  gaed  out  on  his  travels, 
and  brought  his  French  lady  and  a'  her  family  hame. 
Me'mar's  in  new  hands  now,  Huntley ;  and  you'll  have  to 
gang  to  see  them,  no  doubt,  and  they'll  make  plenty  wark 
about  you.  It's  their  fashion.  I'm  no  much  heeding  about 
their  ways  mysel',  but  Cosmo  has  little  else  in  his  head, 
night  or  day." 

Cosmo  blushed  in  answer  to  this  sudden  assault ;  but  the 
blush  was  angry  and  painful,  and  his  brother  eagerly  inter 
posed  to  cover  it. 

"  The  ladies  that  took  Melmar  from  us ! — let  us  hear 
about  them,  mother,"  said  Huntley. 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  329 

Th<  Mistress  turned  round  suddenly  to  the  door  to  make 
sure  it  was  closed. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,"  she  said,  solemnly,  and  with  em 
phasis,  "  yon's  the  man  that's  married  upon  Marie." 

"  Who  ?"  cried  Cosmo,  starting  to  his  feet,  with  eager 
interest. 

The  Mistress  eyed  him  severely  for  a  moment. 

"  When  you're  done  making  antics,  Cosmo  Livingstone, 
I'll  say  my  say,"  said  his  offended  mother — "  you  may  be 
fond  enough  of  French  folk,  without  copying  their  very 
fashion.  I  would  have  mair  pride  if  it  was  me." 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  which  was  not  merely 
impatience,  but  covered  deeply  wounded  feelings,  Cosmo 
once  more  resumed  the  seat  which  he  thrust  hastily  from 
the  table.  His  mother  glanced  at  him  once  more.  If  she 
had  a  favorite  among  her  children,  it  was  this  her  youngest 
son,  yet  she  had  a  perverse  momentary  satisfaction  in  per 
ceiving  how  much  annoyed  he  was. 

"  Yon's  the  man !"  said  the  Mistress,  with  a  certain 
triumphant  contempt  in  her  voice  ;  "just  the  very  same 
dirty  Frenchman  that  Huntley  brought  to  the  house  this 
day.  I'm  no  mista'en.  He's  wanting  his  wife,  and  he'll  find 
her,  and  I  wish  her  muckle  joy  of  her  bonnie  bargain. 
That's  just  the  ill-doing  vagabond  of  a  husband  that's  run 
away  from  Marie !" 

"  Mother,"  said  Cosmo,  eagerly,  "  you  know  quite  well 
how  little  friendship  I  have  for  Marie — " 

When  he  had  got  so  far  he  stopped  suddenly.  His  sug 
gestion  to  the  contrary  was  almost  enough  to  make  his  mo 
ther  inform  the  stranger  at  once  of  the  near  neighborhood 
of  his  wife,  and  Cosmo  paused  only  in  time. 

"  The  mair  shame  to  you,"  said  the  Mistress,  indignantly, 
"  she's  a  suffering  woman,  ill  and  neglected  ;  and  I  warn 
you  baith  I'm  no'  gaun  to  send  this  blackguard  to  Melmar 
to  fright  the  little  life  there  is  out  of  a  puir  dying  creature. 
He  shall  find  out  his  wife  for  his  am  hand ;  he  shanna  be  in 
debted  to  me." 

"  It  is  like  yourself,  mother,  to  determine  so,"  said  Cosmo, 
gratefully.  "  Though,  if  she  had  the  choice,  I  daresay  she 
would  decide  otherwise,  and  perhaps  Madame  Roche  too. 
You  say  I  am  always  thinking  of  them,  but  certainly  I 


330  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

would  not  trust  to  their  wisdom — neither  Madame  Roche 
nor  Marie." 

"  But  really — have  some  pity  upon  my  curiosity — who  is 
Marie,  mother  ?"  cried  Huntley,  "  and  who  is  her  husband, 
and  what  is  it  about  altogether  ?  I  know  nothing  of  Pier 
rot,  and  I  don't  believe  much  good  of  him;  but  how  do  you 
know  ?" 

"Marie  is  the  French  lady's  eldest  daughter — madarne 
would  have  married  her  upon  you,  Huntley,  my  man,  if  she 
had  been  free,"  said  the  Mistress,  "  and  I  woudna  say  but 
she's  keeping  the  little  one  in  her  hand  for  you  to  make  up 
for  your  loss,  as  she  says.  But  Marie,  she  settled  for  hersel' 
lang  before  our  Cosmo  took  news  of  their  land  to  them ; 
and  it  just  shows  what  kind  of  folk  they  were  when  she  took 
up  with  the  like  of  this  lad.  I've  little  skill  in  Frenchmen, 
that's  true  ;  if  he's  not  a  common  person,  and  a  blackguard 
to  the  boot,  I'm  very  sair  deceived  in  my  e'en ;  but  what 
ever  else  he  is,  he's  her  man,  and  that  I'm  just  as  sure  of  as 
mortal  person  can  be.  But  she's  a  poor  suffering  thing  that 
will  never  be  well  in  this  world,  and  I'll  no'  send  a  wander 
ing  vagabond  to  startle  her  out  of  her  life." 

"  What  do  you  say,  niadame,"  screamed  a  voice  at  the 
door  ;  "  you  know  my  wife — you  know  her — Madame  Pier 
rot  ? — and  you  will  keep  her  husband  from  her  ?  What ! 
you  would  take  my  Marie  ? — you  would  marry  her  to  your 
son  because  she  is  rich  ?  but  I  heard  you — oh,  I  heard  you ! 
I  go  to  fly  to  my  dear  wife." 

The  Mistress  rose,  holding  back  Huntley,  who  was  ad 
vancing  indignantly : — 

"  Fly  away,  Mounseer,"  said  Mrs.  Livingstone,  "  you'll 
find  little  but  closed  doors  this  night ;  and  dinna  stand  there 
swearing  and  screaming  at  me ;  you  may  gang  just  when 
you  please,  and  welcome ;  but  we'll  have  none  of  your  pas 
sions  here ;  be  quiet,  Huntley — he's  no'  a  person  to  touch 
with  clean  fingers — are  you  hearing  me  man  ?  Gang  up  to 
your  bed,  if  you  please  this  moment.  I  give  you  a  night's 
shelter  because  you  came  with  my  son  ;  or  if  you'll  no'  go 
up  the  stairs  go  forth  out  of  my  doors,  and  dinna  say  an 
other  word  to  me — do  you  hear  ?" 

Pierrot  stood  at  the  door,  muttering  French  curses  as 
fast  as  he  could  utter  them;  but  he  did  hear  notwith 
standing.  After  a  little  parley  with  Huntley,  he  went  up 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NORLAW.  331 

stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  locked  himself  into  his 
chamber. 

"  He's  just  as  wise,"  said  the  Mistress,  "  but  it's  no'  very 
safe  sleeping  with  such  a  villain  in  the  house ;"  which  was 
so  far  true  that,  excited  and  restless,  she  herself  did  not 
sleep,  but  lay  broad  awake  all  night  thinking  of  Huntley 
and  Cosmo — thinking  of  all  the  old  grief  and  all  the  new 
vexations  which  Mary  of  Melmar  had  brought  to  her  own 
life. 


CHAPTEK    LXVI. 

FOR  these  five  years  had  not  been  so  peaceful  as  their 
predecessors — the  face  of  this  home  country  was  much 
changed  to  some  of  the  old  dwellers  here.  Dr.  Logan,  old 
and  well-beloved,  was  in  his  quiet  grave,  and  Katie  and  her 
orphans,  far  out  of  the  knowledge  of  the  parish  which  once 
had  taken  so  entire  an  interest  in  them,  were  succeeded  by 
a  new  minister's  new  wife,  who  had  no  children  yet  to  glad 
den  the  manse  so  long  accustomed  to  young  voices ;  and 
the  great  excitement  of  the  revolution  at  Melmar  had  scarce 
ly  yet  subsided  in  this  quiet  place  ; — least  of  all,  had  it  sub 
sided  with  the  Mistress,  who,  spite  of  a  lurking  fondness  for 
little  Desiree,  could  not  help  finding  in  the  presence  of  Mary 
of  Melmar  a  perpetual  vexation.  Their  French  habits,  their 
language,  their  sentiments  and  effusiveness — the  peevish 
invalid  condition  of  Marie,  and  even  the  sweet  temper  of 
Madame  Roche,  aggravated  with  a  perennial  agitation,  the 
hasty  spirit  of  Mrs.  Livingstone.  She  could  not  help  hear 
ing  every  thing  that  everybody  said  of  them,  could  not 
help  watching  with  a  rather  unamiable  interest  the  failings 
and  shortcomings  of  the  family  of  women  who  had  dispos 
sessed  her  son.  And  then  her  other  son — her  Cosmo,  of 
whom  she  had  been  so  proud — could  see  nothing  that  did 
not  fascinate  and  attract  him  in  this  little  French  household. 
So,  at  least,  his  mother  thought.  She  could  have  borne  an 
honest  falling  in  love,  and  "  put  up  with"  the  object  of  it, 
but  she  could  not  tolerate  the  idea  of  her  son  paying  tender 


332  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLA.W. 

court  to  another  mother,  or  of  sharing  with  any  one  the  di 
vided  honors  of  her  maternal  place.  This  fancy  was  gall 
and  bitterness  to  the  Mistress,  and  had  an  unconscious  influ 
ence  upon  almost  every  thing  she  did  or  said,  especially  on 
those  two  days  in  every  week  which  Cosmo  spent  at  Norlaw. 

"  It's  but  little  share  his  mother  has  in  his  coming,"  she 
said  to  herself,  bitterly  ;  and  even  Marget  found  the  temper 
of  the  Mistress  rather  trying  upon  the  Sundays  and  Mon 
days  ;  while  between  Cosmo  and  herself  there  rose  a  cloud 
of  mutual  oifense  and  exasperation,  which  had  no  cause  in 
reality,  but  seemed  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  either  ex 
planation  or  peace-making  now. 

The  Sabbath  morning  rose  bright  and  calm  over  Norlaw. 
"When  Huntley  woke,  the  birds  were  singing  in  that  special, 
sacred,  sweetest  festival  of  theirs,  which  is  held  when  mosi 
of  us  are  sleeping,  and  seems  somehow  all  the  tenderer  for 
being  to  themselves  and  God ;  and  when  Huntley  rose  to 
look  out,  his  heart  sang  like  the  birds.  There  stood  the 
Strength  of  Nbrlaw,  all  aglist  with  early  morning  dews  and 
sunshine,  wall-flowers  tufting  its  old  walls,  sweet  wild-roses 
looking  out,  like  adventurous  children,  from  the  vacant  win 
dows,  and  the  green  turf  mantling  up  upon  its  feet.  There 
ran  Tyne,  a  glimmer  of  silver  among  the  grass  and  the  trees. 
Yonder  stretched  forth  the  lovely  country-side,  with  all  its 
wealthy  undulations,  concealing  the  hidden  house  of  Melmar 
among  its  woods.  And  to  the  south,  the  mystic  Eildons, 
pale  with  the  ecstacy  of  the  night,  stood  silent  under  the 
morning  light,  which  hung  no  purple  shadows  on  their 
shoulders.  Huntley  gazed  out  of  his  window  till  his  eyes 
filled.  He  was  too  young  to  know,  like  his  mother,  that  it 
was  best  when  nothing  happened  ;  and  this  event  of  his  re 
turn  recalled  to  him  all  the  events  of  his  life.  He  thought 
of  his  father,  and  that  solemn  midnight  burial  of  his  among 
the  ruins ;  he  thought  of  his  own  wanderings,  his  hope  and 
loss  of  wealth,  his  present  modest  expectations;  and  then  a 
brighter  light  and  a  more  wistful  gaze  came  to  Huntley's 
face.  He,  too,  was  no  longer  to  be  content  with  home  and 
mother ;  but  a  sober  tenderness  subdued  the  young  man's 
ardor  when  he  thought  of  Katie  Logan  among  her  children. 

Seven  years!  It  was  a  long  trial  for  an  unpledged  love. 
Had  no  other  thoughts  come  into  her  good  heart  in  the 
meantime  ?  or,  indeed,  did  she  ever  think  of  Huntley  save 


THE    LALRD     OF     NOBLAW.  333 

in  her  elder-sisterly  kindness  as  she  thought  of  everybody  ? 
When  this  oft-discussed  question  returned  to  him,  Huntley 
could  no  longer  remain  quiet  at  his  window.  He  hastily 
finished  his  toilette  and  went  down  stairs,  smiling  to  himself 
as  he  unbolted  and  unlocked  the  familiar  door — those  very 
same  bolts  and  locks  which  had  so  often  yielded  to  his  rest 
less  fingers  in  those  days  when  Huntley  was  never  still. 
Now,  by  this  time,  he  had  learned  to  keep  himself  quiet  oc 
casionally  ;  but  the  old  times  flashed  back  upon  him  strange 
ly,  full  of  smiles  and  tears,  in  the  unfastening  of  that  door. 

Thinking  certainly  that  at  so  early  an  hour  he  himself  was 
the  first  person  astir  in  JSTorlaw,  Huntley  was  greatly  amazed 
to  find  Cosmo — no  longer  choosing  his  boyish  seat  of  medi 
tation  in  the  window  of  the  old  castle — wandering  restlessly 
about  the  ruins.  And  Cosmo  did  not  seem  quite  pleased  to 
see  him  /  that  was  still  more  remarkable.  The  elder  broth 
er  could  not  help  seeing  again,  as  in  a  picture,  the  delicate 
fair  boy,  with  his  long  arms  thrust  out  of  the  jacket  which 
was  too  small  for  him,  with  his  bursts  of  boyish  vehemence 
and  enthusiasm,  his  old  chivalrous  championship  of  the  un- 
,  known  Mary,  his  tenacious  love  for  the  hereditary  Norlaw. 
Huntley  had  not  seen  the  boy  grow  up  into  the  man — he 
had  not  learned  to  moderate  his  protecting  love  for  the 
youngest  child  into  the  steady  brotherly  affection  which 
should  now  acknowledge  the  man  as  an  equal.  Cosmo  was 
still  "  my  father's  son,"  the  youngest,  the  dearest,  the  one 
to  be  shielded  from  trouble,  in  the  fancy  of  the  elder  broth 
er.  Yet,  there  he  stood,  as  tall  as  Huntley,  his  childish  del 
icacy  of  complexion  gone,  his  fair  hair  crisp  and  curled,  his 
dark  eyes  stormy  and  full  of  personal  emotions,  his  foot  im 
patient  and  restless,  the  step  of  a  man  already  burdened 
with  cares  of  his  own.  And,  reluctant  to  meet  his  brother, 
his  closest  friend,  and  once  his  natural  guardian  !  Huntley 
thrust  his  arm  into  Cosmo's,  and  drew  him  round  the  other 
side  of  the  ruins. 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  avoid  me  ?"  said  the  elder  broth 
er,  with  a  pang.  "  What  is  wrong,  Cosmo  ? — can  you  not 
tell  me  ?» 

"  Nothing  is  wrong,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,"  said  Cosmo, 
with  some  haughtiness.  His  first  impulse  seemed  to  be  to 
draw  away  his  arm  from  his  brother's,  but,  if  it  was  so,  he 
restrained  himself,  and,  instead,  walked  on  with  a  cold, 


334  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

averted  face,  which  was  almost  more  painful  than  any  act  to 
the  frank  spirit  of  Huntley. 

"  I  will  ask  no  more  questions  then,"  said  Huntley,  with 
some  impatience  ;  "  I  ought  to  remember  how  long  I  have 
been  gone,  and  how  little  you  know  of  me.  What  is  to  be 
done  about  this  Pierrot  ?  So  far  as  I  can  glean  from  what 
my  mother  says,  he  will  be  an  unwelcome  guest  at  Melmar. 
What  ground  has  my  mother  for  supposing  him  connected 
with  Madame  Roche  ?  What  sort  of  a  person  is  Madame 
Roche  ?  What  have  you  all  been  doing  with  yourselves  ? 
I  have  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  about  everybody.  Even 
Patie  no  one  speaks  of;  if  nothing  is  wrong  you  are  all 
strangely  changed  since  I  went  away." 

"  I  suppose  the  all  means  myself;  I  am  changed  since  you 
went  away,"  said  Cosmo,  moodily. 

"  Yes,  you  are  changed,  Cosmo  ;  I  don't  understand  it ; 
however,  never  mind,  you  can  tell  the  reason  why  when  you 
know  me  better,"  said  Huntley,  c'but,  in  the  meantime, 
how  is  Patie,  and  where  ?  And  what  about  this  Madame 
Roche?" 

"  Madame  Roche  is  very  well,"  said  Cosmo,  with  assumed 
indifference,  "  her  eldest  daughter  is  married,  and  has  long 
been  deserted  by  her  husband ;  but  I  don't  know  his  name 
— they  never  mention  it.  Madame  Roche  is  ashamed  of 
him  ;  they  were  people  of  very  good  family,  in  spite  of  what 
my  mother  says — Roche  de  St.  Martin — but  I  sent  you 
word  of  all  this  long  ago.  It  is  little  use  repeating  it  now." 

"  Why  should  Pierrot  be  her  husband,  of  all  men  in  the 
world  ?"  said  Huntley  ;  "  but  if  he's  not  wanted  at  Melmar, 
you  had  better  send  the  ladies  word  of  your  suspicions, 
and  put  them  on  their  guard." 

"  I  have  been  there  this  morning,"  said  Cosmo,  slightly 
confused  by  his  own  admission. 

"  This  morning  ?  you  certainly  have  not  lost  any  time," 
said  Huntley,  laughing.  "Never  mind,  Cosmo,  I  said  I 
should  ask  nothing  you  did  not  want  to  tell  me ;  though 
why  you  should  be  so  anxious  to  keep  her  husband  away 
from  the  poor  woman — How  have  they  got  on  at  Melmar  ? 
Have  they  many  friends  ?  Are  they  people  to  make  friends? 
They  seem  at  least  to  be  people  of  astonishing  importance 
in  Norlaw." 

"My  mother,"  said  Cosmo,  angrily,  "dislikes  Madame 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOELAW.  335 

Roche,  and  consequently  every  thing  said  and  done  at  Mel- 
mar  takes  an  evil  aspect  in  her  eyes." 

"  My  boy,  that  is  not  a  tone  in  which  to  speak  of  my 
mother,"  said  Huntley,  with  gravity. 

"  I  know  it !"  cried  the  younger  brother,  "  but  how  can 
I  help  it  ?  it  is  true  they  are  my  friends.  I  confess  to  that ; 
why  should  they  not  be  my  friends?  why  should  I  reject 
kindness  when  I  find  it  ?  As  for  Marie,  she  is  a  selfish, 
peevish  invalid,  I  have  no  patience  with  her — but — Madame 
Roche—" 

Cosmo  made  a  full  stop  before  he  said  Madame  Roche, 
and  pronounced  that  name  at  last  so  evidently  as  a  substi 
tute  for  some  other  name,  that  Huntley's  curiosity  was 
roused;  which  curiosity,  however,  he  thought  it  best  to 
satisfy  diplomatically,  and  by  a  round-about  course. 

"  I  must  see  her  to-morrow,"  he  said ;  "  but  what  of  our  old 
friend,  Melmar,  who  loved  us  all  so  well  ?  I  should  not  like 
to  rejoice  in  any  man's  downfall,  but  he  deserved  it,  surely. 
What  has  become  of  them  all?" 

"  He  is  a  poor  writer  again,"  said  Cosmo,  shortly,  "  and 
Joanna — it  was  Joanna  who  brought  Desiree  here." 

"  Who  is  Desiree  ?"  asked  Huntley. 

"  I  ought  to  say  Miss  Roche,"  said  Cosmo,  blushing  to 
his  hair.  "Joanna  Huntley'and  she  were  great  friends  at 
school,  and  after  the  change  she  was  very  anxious  that  Jo 
anna  should  stay.  She  is  the  youngest,  and  an  awkward, 
strange  girl — but,  why  I  can  not  tell,  she  clings  to^  her 
father,  and  is  a  governess  or  school-mistress  now,  I  believe. 
Yes,  things  change  strangely.  They  were  together  when  I 
saw  them  first." 

"  They — them  !  you  are  rather  mysterious,  Cosmo.  What 
is  the  story  ?"  asked  his  brother. 

"  Oh,  nothing  very  remarkable ;  only  Des — Miss  Roche, 
you  know,  came  to  Melmar  first  of  all  as  governess  to  Jo 
anna,  and  it  was  while  she  was  there  th  at  I  found  Madame 
Roche  at  St.  Ouen.  When  I  returned,  my  mother,"^ said 
Cosmo,  with  a  softening  in  his  voice,  "  brought  Desiree  to 
Koiiaw,  as  you  must  have  heard;  and  it  was  from  our 
house  that  she  went  home." 

"  And,  except  this  unfortunate  sick  one,  she  is  the  only 
child  ?"  said  Huntley.  "  I  understand  it  now." 

Cosmo  gave  him  a  hurried  jealous  glance,  as  if  to  ask 


336  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW. 

what  it  was  he  understood,  but  after  that  relapsed  into  un 
comfortable  silence.  They  went  on  for  some  time  so, 
Cosmo  with  anger  and  impatience  supposing  his  elder 
brother's  mind  to  be  occupied  with  what  he  had  just  told 
him  ;  and  it  was  with  amazement,  relief,  but  almost  con 
tempt  for  Huntley's  extraordinary  want  of  interest  in  mat 
ters  so  deeply  interesting  to  himself,  that  Cosmo  heard  and 
answered  the  next  question  addressed  to  him. 

"  And  Dr.  Logan  is  dead,"  said  Huntley,  with  a  quiet 
sorrow  in  his  voice,  which  trembled  too  with  another  emo 
tion.  "  I  wonder  where  Katie  and  her  bairns  are  now  ?" 

"  Not  very  far  off;  somewhere  near  Edinburgh.  I  think 
Lasswade.  Mr.  Cassilis'  mother  lives  there,"  said  Cosmo. 

"  Mr  Cassilis  !  I  had  forgotten  him,"  said  Huntley,  "  but 
he  does  not  live  at  Lasswade  ?" 

"  They  say  he  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  Katie  Lo 
gan  in  Edinburgh,"  said  Cosmo,  indifferently ;  "  they  are 
cousins — I  suppose  they  are  likely  to  be  married  ; — how  do 
I  know  ?  Well,  only  by  some  one  telling  me,  Huntley  !  I 
did  not  know  you  cared." 

"  Who  said  I  cared  ?"  cried  Huntley,  with  sudden  pas 
sion.  "  How  should  any  one  know  any  thing  about  the 
matter — eh  ?  I  only  asked,  of  course,  from  curiosity, 
because  we  know  her  so  well — used  to  know  her  so  well. 
Not  you,  who  were  a  child,  but  we  two  elder  ones.  My 
brother  Patie — I  hear  nothing  of  Patie.  Where  is  he  then  ? 
You  must  surely  know." 

"  He  is  to  come  to  meet  you  to-morrow,"  said  Cosmo, 
who  was  really  grieved  for  his  own  carelessness.  "  Don't 
let  me  vex  you,  Huntley.  I  am  vexed  myself,  and  troubled  ; 
but  I  never  thought  of  that,  and  may  be  quite  wrong,  as  I 
am  often,"  he  added,  with  momentary  humility,  for  Cosmo 
was  deeply  mortified  by  the  sudden  idea  that  he  had  been 
selfishly  mindful  of  his  own  concerns,  and  indifferent  to 
those  of  his  brother.  For  the  time,  it  filled  him  with  self- 
reproach  and  penitence. 

"  Never  mind ;  every  thing  comes  right  in  time,"  said 
Huntley  ;  but  this  piece  of  philosophy  was  said  mechanically 
— the  first  common-place  which  occurred  to  Huntley  to  vail 
the  perturbation  of  his  thoughts. 

Just  then  some  sounds  from  the  house  called  their  atten 
tion  there.  The  Mistress  herself  stood  at  the  open  door  of 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW.  337 

.N"orlaw,  contemplating  the  exit  of  the  Frenchman,  who  stood 
before  her,  hat  in  hand,  making  satirical  bows  and  thanking 
her  for  his  night's  lodging.  In  the  morning  sunshine  this 
personage  looked  dirtier  and  more  disreputable  than  on  the 
previous  night.  He  had  not  been  at  all  particular  about 
his  toilette,  and  curled  up  his  moustache  over  his  white 
teeth,  the  only  thing  white  about  him,  with  a  most  sinister 
sneer,  while  he  addressed  his  hostess ;  while  she,  in  the 
meantime,  in  her  morning  cap  and  heavy  black  gown,  and 
clear,  ruddy  face,  stood  watching  him,  as  perfect  a  contrast 
as  could  be  coneived. 

"  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  making  my  adieux,  madame," 
cried  Pierrot ;  "  receive  the  assurance  of  my  distinguished 
regard.  I  shall  bring  my  wife  to  thank  you.  I  shall  tell 
my  wife  what  compliments  you  paid  her,  to  free  her  from 
her  unworthy  spouse  and  bestow  your  son.  She  will  thank 
you — I  will  thank  you.  Madame,  from  my  heart  I  make  you 
my  adieux !" 

"  It's  Sabbath  morning,"  said  the  Mistress,  quietly ;  "  and 
if  you  find  your  wife — I  dinna  envy  her,  poor  woman  !  you 
can  tell  her  just  whatever  you  please,  and  I'll  no'  cross  you  ; 
though  it's  weel  to  see  you  dinna  ken,  you  puir,  misguided 
heathen,  that  you're  in  another  kind  of  country  frae  your 
ain.  You  puir  Pagan  creature  !  do  you  think  I  would  ware 
my  Huntley  on  a  woman  that  had  been  another  man's  wife  ? 
or  do  you  think  that  marriage  can  be  broken  here?  but  it's 
no'  worth  my  while  parleying  with  the  like  of  you.  Gang 
your  ways  and  find  your  wife,  and  be  good  to  her,  if  it's  in 
you.  She's  maybe  a  silly  woman  that  likes  ye  still,  vaga- 
bone  though  ye  be — she's  maybe  near  the  end  of  her  days, 
for  onything  you  ken.  Go  away  and  get  some  kindness  in 
your  heart  if  ye  can — and  every  single  word  I've  said  to  you 
you  can  tell  ower  again  to  your  wife." 

Which  would  have  been  rather  hard,  however,  though 
the  Mistress  did  not  know  it.  The  wanderer  knew  English 
better  than  a  Frenchman  often  does,  but  his  education  had 
been  neglected — he  did  not  know  Scotch — a  fact  which  did 
not  enter  into  the  calculations  of  Mrs.  Livingstone. 

"  Adieu,  comrade !"  cried  Pierrot,  waving  his  hand  to 
Huntley ;  "  when  I  see  you  again  you  shall  behold  a  milor, 
a  nobleman  ;  be  happy  with  your  amiable  parent.  I  go  to 
my  wife,  who  adores  me.  Adieu." 

15 


338  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

"And  it's  true,"  said  the  Mistress,  drawing  a  long  breath 
as  the  strange  guest  disappeared  on  the  road  to  Kirkbride. 
"Eh,  sirs,  but  this  world's  a  mystery!  it's  just  true,  so  far 
as  I  hear  ;  she  does  adore  him,  and  him  baith  a  mountebank 
and  a  vagabone !  it  passes  the  like  of  me !" 

And  Cosmo,  looking  after  him  too,  thought  of  Cameron. 
Could  that  be  the  husband  for  whom  Marie  had  pined  away 
her  life  ? 


CHAPTEE    LXVII. 

IT  was  Sabbath  morning,  but  it  was  not  a  morning  of  rest ; 
though  it  was  Huntley's  first  day  at  home,  and  though  it 
did  his  heart  good  to  see  his  mother,  the  young  man's  heart 
was  already  astray  and  pre-occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  ; 
and  Cosmo,  full  of  subdued  but  unrecoverable  excitement, 
which  his  mother's  jealous  eye  only  too  plainly  perceived, 
covered  the  face  of  the  Mistress  with  clouds.  Yet  a  spec 
tator  might  have  supposed  that  breakfast-table  a  very  centre 
of  family  love  and  harmony.  The  snow-white  cloth,  the 
basket  of  brown  oat-cakes  and  white  flour  scones,  of  Marget's 
most  delicate  manufacture,  the  great  jug  full  of  rich  red 
June  roses,  which  made  a  glory  in  the  midst,  and  the  mother 
at  the  head  of  her  table,  with  those  two  sons  in  the  bloom 
of  their  young  manhood,  on  either  side  of  her,  and  the  dress 
of  her  widowhood  throwing  a  certain,  tender,  pathetic  sug 
gestion  into  her  joy  and  their  love.  It  was  a  picture  had  it 
been  a  picture,  which  no  one  could  have  seen  without  a 
touching  consciousness  of  one  of  the  most  touching  sides  of 
human  life.  A  family  which  at  its  happiest  must  always 
recall  and  commemorate  a  perpetual  lack  and  vacancy,  and 
where  all  the  aiFections  were  the  deeper  and  tenderer  for 
that  sorrow  which  overshadowed  them ;  the  sons  of  their 
mother,  and  she  was  a  widow  !  But,  alas,  for  human  pic 
tures  and  ideals  !  The  mother  was  restless  and  dissatisfied, 
feeling  strange  interests  crowding  in  to  the  very  hour  which 
should  be  peculiarly  her  own  ;  the  young  men  were  stirred 
with  the  personal  and  undisclosed  troubles  of  their  early 
life.  They  sat  together  at  their  early  meal,  speaking  of 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  339 

common  matters,  eating  daily  bread,  united  yet  separate, 
the  peace  of  the  morning  only  vailing  over  a  surface  of  com 
motion,  and  Sabbath  in  every  thing  around  save  in  their 
hearts. 

"  It's  a  strange  minister — you'll  miss  the  old  man,  Hunt- 
ley,"  said  the  Mistress  ;  "  but  you'll  write  down  your  thanks 
giving  like  a  good  bairn,  and  put  an  offering  in  the  plate  ; 
put  your  name,  say,  '  Huntley  Livingstone  returns  thanks  to 
God  for  his  safe  home-coming.'  There  would  have  been  nae 
need  for  that  if  Dr.  Logan  had  been  to  the  fore ;  he  aye 
minded  baith  thanks  and  supplications  ;  and  I'll  never  forget 
what  petitions  he  made  in  his  prayer  the  last  Sabbath  you 
were  at  hame.  You're  early  stirring,  Cosmo — it's  no'  time 
yet  for  the  kirk." 

"  I  am  going  to  Melmar,  mother,"  said  Cosmo,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  Mistress  made  no  answer  ;  a  flush  came  over  her  face, 
and  her  brow  contracted,  but  she  only  said,  as  if  to  herself: — 

"  It's  the  Sabbath  day." 

"  I  went  there  this  morning,  to  warn  them  of  this  man's 
arrival,"  said  Cosmo,  with  excitement,  "  saying  what  you 
thought.  I  did  not  see  any  of  them  ;  but  Marie  has  one  of 
her  illnesses.  They  have  no  one  to  support  them  in  any 
emergency.  I  must  see  that  he  does  not  break  in  upon 
them  to-day." 

The  Mistress  still  made  no  answer.  After  a  little  struggle 
with  herself,  she  nodded  hastily. 

"  If  ye're  a'  done,  I'll  rise  from  the  table.  I  have  things 
to  do  before  kirk-time,"  she  said  at  length,  pushing  back 
her  chair  and  turning  away.  She  had  nothing  to  say  against 
Cosmo's  resolution,  but  she  was  deeply  offended  by  it — 
deeply,  unreasonably,  and  she  knew  it — but  could  not  re 
strain  the  bitter  emotion.  To  be  absent  from  the  kirk  at  all, 
save  by  some  overpowering  necessity,  was  an  offense  to  all 
her  strong  Scottish  prejudices — but  it  was  an  especial  breach 
of  family  decorum,  and  all  the  acknowledged  sentiment  and 
punctilio  of  love,  to  be  absent  to-day. 

"  Keep  us  a'  patient !"  cried  Marget,  in  an  indignant 
undertone,  when  Mrs.  Livingstone  was  out  of  hearing ;  for 
Marget,  on  one  pretense  or  other,  kept  going  and  coming 
into  the  dining-parlor  the  whole  morning,  to  rejoice  her 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  Huntley.  "  Some  women  come  into 


340  THE    LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

this  world  for  nae  good  reason  but  to  make  trouble.  To 
speak  to  the  Mistress  about  an  emergency!  Whaever  sup 
ported  her  in  her  troubles  but  the  Almighty  himsel'  and  her 
ain  stout  heart  ?  I  dinna  wonder  it's  hard  to  bear !  Some 
gang  through  the  fire  for  their  ain  hand,  and  no'  a  mortal 
nigh  them — some  maun  have  a  haill  houseful  to  bear  them 
up.  Weel,  weel,  I'm  no'  saying  any  thing  against  it — it's 
kind  o'  you,  Mr.  Cosmo — but  you  should  think,  laddie,  be 
fore  you  speak." 

"  She  is  not  like  my  mother,"  said  Cosmo,  somewhat 
sullenly. 

"Like  your  mother!"  cried  Marget,  with  the  utmost 
contempt.  "  She  would  smile  a  hantle  mair,  and  ca'  ye  mail- 
dears  in  a  day  than  my  Mistress  in  a  twelvemonth ;  but 
would  she  hare  fought  and  struggled  through  her  life  for  a 
thankless  man  and  thankless  bairns — I  trow  no  !  Like  your 
mother  !  She  was  bonnie  when  she  was  young,  and  she's 
maybe,  bonnie  now,  for  onything  I  ken ;  but  she  never  was 
wordy  to  tie  the  shoe  upon  the  foot  of  the  Mistress  of 
Norlaw !" 

"  Be  silent !"  cried  Cosmo,  angrily ;  and  before  Marget's 
indignation  at  this  reproof  could  find  itself  words,  the  young 
man  had  hurried  out  from  the  room  and  from  the  house, 
boiling  with  resentment  and  a  sense  of  injury.  He  saw 
exactly  the  other  side  of  the  question — his  mother's  jealous 
temper,  and  hard-heartedness  and  dislike  to  the  gentle  and 
tender  Madame  Roche — but  he  could  not  see  how  hard  it 
was,  after  all,  for  the  honest,  faithful  heart,  which  grudged 
no  pain  nor  hardship  for  its  own,  to  find  their  love  beguiled 
away  again  and  again — or  even  to  suppose  it  was  beguiled 
— by  one  who  had  never  done  any  thing  to  deserve  such 
affection. 

And  Cosmo  hurried  on  through  the  narrow  paths  to  Mel- 
mar,  his  heart  a-flame  with  a  young  man's  resentment,  and 
impatience,  and  love.  He  scarcely  could  tell  what  it  was 
which  excited  him  so  entirely.  Not,  certainly,  the  vaga 
bond  Pierrot,  or  any  fears  for  Marie ;  not  even  the  displea 
sure  of  his  mother.  He  would  not  acknowledge  to  himself 
the  eager,  jealous  fears  which  hurried  him  through  those 
flowery  bye-ways  where  the  blossoms  of  the  hawthorn  had 
fallen  in  showers  like  summer  snow,  and  the  wild  roses  were 
rich  in  the  hedgerows.  Huntley  ! — why  did  he  fear  Hunt- 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOKLAW.  341 

ley?  What  was  the  impulse  of  unfraternal  impatience 
which  made  him  turn  with  indignant  offense  from  every 
thought  of  his  brother  ?  Had  he  put  it  into  words,  he 
would  have  despised  himself;  but  he  only  rushed  on  in 
silence  through  the  silent  Sabbath  fields  and  bye-ways  to  the 
house  of  Madame  Roche. 

It  is  early,  early  yet,  and  there  is  still  no  church  bell  ring 
ing  through  the  silence  of  the  skies  to  rouse  the  farms  and 
cottages.  The  whole  bright  summer  world  was  as  silent  as 
a  dream — the  corn  growing,  the  flowers  opening,  the  sun 
shining,  without  a  whisper  to  tell  that  dutiful  Nature 
carried  on  her  pious  work  through  all  the  day  of  rest.  The 
Tyne  ran  softly  beneath  his  banks,  the  Kelpie  rushed  foam 
ing  white  down  its  little  ravine,  and  all  the  cool  burns  from 
among  the  trees  dropped  down  into  Tyne  with  a  sound  like 
silver  bells.  Something  white  shone  upon  the  path  on  the 
very  spot  were  Desiree  once  lay,  proud  and  desolate,  in  the 
chill  of  the  winter  night,  brooding  over  false  friendship  and 
pretended  love.  Desiree  now  is  sitting  on  the  same  stone, 
musing  once  more  in  her  maiden  meditation.  The  universal 
human  trouble  broods  even  on  these  thoughts — not  heavily 
— only  like  the  shadow  that  flits  along  the  trees  of  Tyne — a 
something  ruffling  the  white  woman's  forehead,  which  is 
more  serious  than  the  girl's  was,  and  disquieting  the  depths 
of  those  eyes  which  Cosmo  Livingstone  had  called  stars. 
Stars  do  not  mist  themselves  with  tender  dew  about  the 
perversities  of  human  kind  as  these  eyes  do  ;  yet  let  nobody 
suppose  that  these  sweet  drops,  lingering  bright  within  the 
young  eyelids,  should  be  called  tears. 

Tears  !  words  have  so  many  meanings  in  this  world  !  it  is 
all  the  same  syllable  that  describes  the  child's  passion,  the 
honey-dew  of  youth,  and  that  heavy  rain  of  grief  which  is 
able  sometimes  to  blot  out  both  the  earth  and  the  skies. 

So,  after  a  fashion,  there  are  tears  in  Desiree's  eyes,  and  a 
great  many  intermingled  thoughts  floating  in  her  mind — 
thoughts  troubled  by  a  little  indignation,  some  fear,  and  a 
good  deal  of  that  fanciful  exaggeration  which  is  in  all  youth 
ful  trials.  She  thinks  she  is  very  sad  just  now  as  she  sits 
half  in  the  shade  and  half  in  the  sunshine,  leaning  her  head 
upon  her  hand,  while  the  playful  wind  occasionally  sprinkles 
over  her  those  snowy  drops  of  spray  from  the  Kelpie  which 
shine  on  her  hair ;  but  the  truth  is  that  nothing  just  now 


342  THE    LAIKD     OP    NORLAW. 

could  make  Desiree  sad,  save  sudden  trouble,  change,  or 
danger  falling  upon  one  person — that  one  person  is  he  who 
devours  the  way  with  eager,  flying  steps,  and  who,  still  more 
disturbed  than  she  is,  still  knows  no  trouble  in  the  presence 
of  Desiree ;  and  that  is  Cosmo  Livingstone. 

No  ;  there  is  no  love-tale  to  tell  but  that  which  has  been 
told  already ;  all  those  preliminaries  are  over ;  the  Kelpie 
saw  them  pledge  their  faith  to  each  other,  while  there  still 
were  but  a  sprinkling  of  spring  leaves  on  those  trees  of 
June.  Desiree  ;  the  name  that  caught  the  boy's  fancy  when 
he  was  a  boy,  and  she  unknown  to  him — the  heroine  of  his 
dreams  ever  since  then,  the  distressed  princess  to  whom  his 
chivalry  had  brought  fortune — how  could  the  young  romance 
end  otherwise  ?  but  why,  while  all  was  so  natural  and  suit 
able,  did  the  young  betrothed  meet  here  ? 

"  I  must  tell  your  mother  !  I  must  speak  to  her  to-day ! 
I  owe  it  both  to  myself  and  Huntley,"  cried  Cosmo.  "  I 
can  not  go  away  again  with  this  jealous  terror  of  my  brother 
in  my  heart ;  I  dare  not,  Desiree !  I  must  speak  to  her  to-day." 

"  Terror  ?  and  jealous  ?  Ah,  then,  you  do  not  trust  me," 
said  Desiree,  with  a  smile.  Her  heart  beat  quicker,  but  she 
was  not  anxious ;  she  held  up  her  hand  to  the  wind  till  it 
was  all  gemmed  with  the  spray  of  the  waterfall,  and  then 
shook  it  over  the  head  of  Cosmo,  as  he  half  sat,  half  knelt 
by  her  side.  He,  however,  was  too  much  excited  to  be 
amused  ;  he  seized  upon  the  wet  hand  and  held  it  fast  in  his 
own. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  possible,"  said  Cosmo.  "  Huntley, 
whom  I  supposed  I  could  have  died  for,  my  kind  brother  ! 
but  it  makes  me  frantic  when  I  think  what  your  mother  has 
said — what  she  intends.  Heaven !  if  he  himself  should 
think  of  you  /" 

"  Go,  you  are  rude,"  said  Desiree ;  "  if  I  am  so  good  as 
you  say,  he  must  think  of  me  ;  but  am  /nothing  then,"  she 
cried,  suddenly  springing  up,  and  stamping  her  little  firm 
foot,  half  in  sport,  half  in  anger  ;  "  how  do  you  dare  speak 
of  me  so  ?  Do  you  think  marnrna  can  give  me  away  like  a 
ring,  or  a  jewel?  Do  you  think  it  will  be  different  to  me 
whether  he  thinks  or  does  not  think  of  Desiree  ?  You 
make  me  angry,  Monsieur  Cosmo ;  if  that  is  all  you  come 
to  tell  me,  go  away  !" 

u  What  can  I  tell  you  else  ?"  cried  Cosmo.     "  I  must  and 


THE    LAIED     OP     NOEL  AW.  343 

will  be  satisfied.  I  can  not  go  on  with  this  hanging  over 
me.  Do  you  remember  what  you  told  me,  Desiree,  that 
Madame  Roche  meant  to  offer  you — you  !  to  my  brother  ? 
and  you  expect  me  to  have  patience  !  No,  I  am  going  to 
her  now." 

"  Then  it  is  all  over,"  cried  Desiree,  "  all  these  sunny  days 
— all  these  dreams !  She  will  say  no,  no.  She  will  say  it 
must  not  be — she  will  forbid  me  meeting  you  ;  but  if  you 
do  not  care,  why  should  I  ?"  exclaimed  the  little  French 
woman,  rapidly.  "  Nay,  you  must  do  what  you  will — you 
must  be  satisfied.  Why  should  you  care  for  what  I  say  ? 
and  as  for  me  I  shall  be  alone." 

So  Desiree  dropped  again  upon  her  stone  seat,  and  put 
her  face  down  into  her  hands,  and  shed  a  few  tears ;  and 
Cosmo,  half  beside  himself,  drew  away  the  hands  from  her 
face,  and  remonstrated,  pleaded,  urged  his  claim. 

"  Why  should  not  you  acknowledge  me  ?"  said  the  young 
lover.  "  Desiree,  long  before  I  ventured  to  speak  it  you 
knew  where  my  heart  was — and  now  I  have  your  own  word 
and  promise.  Your  mother  will  not  deny  you.  Come  with 
me,  and  say  to  Madame  Roche — " 

"  What  ?"  said  Madame  Roche's  daughter,  glancing  up  at 
him  as  he  paused. 

But  Cosmo  was  in  earnest  now : — 

"What  is  in  your  heart!"  he  said  breathlessly.  "You 
.turn  away  from  me,  and  I  can  not  look  into  it.  What  is  in 
your  heart,  whether  it  is  joy,  or  destruction,  I  care  not," 
cried  the  young  man  suddenly,  "  I  must  know  my  fate." 

Desiree  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  some  sur 
prise  and  a  quick  flush  of  anger  : — 

"  What  have  I  done  that  you  dare  doubt  me  ?"  she  cried, 
clapping  her  hands  together  with  natural  petulance.  "  You 
are  impatient — you  are  angry — you  are  jealous — but  does 
all  that  change  me  ?" 

"  Then  come  with  me  to  Madame  Roche,"  said  the  perti 
nacious  lover. 

Desiree  had  the  greatest  mind  in  the  world  to  make  a 
quarrel  and  leave  him.  She  was  not  much  averse  now  and 
then  to  a  quarrel  with  Cosmo,  for  she  was  a  most  faulty  and 
imperfect  little  heroine,  as  has  been  already  confessed  in 
these  pages ;  but  in  good  time  another  caprice  seized  her, 
and  she  changed  her  mind. 


344  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

"Marie  is  ill,"  she  said  softly,  in  a  tone  which  melted 
Cosmo  ;  "  let  us  not  go  now  to  trouble  poor  mamma." 

"  Marie !  I  came  this  morning  to  warn  her,  or  rather  to 
warn  Madame  Roche,"  said  Cosmo,  recalled  to  the  ostensi 
ble  cause  of  his  visit.  "  A  Frenchman,  called  Pierrot,  came 
home  with  Huntley — " 

But  before  he  could  finish  his  sentence,  Desiree  started  up 
with  a  scream  at  the  name,  and  seizing  his  arm,  in  her 
French  impatience  overwhelmed  him  with  terrified  ques 
tions  : — 

"  Pierrot  ?  quick !  speak  !  where  is  he  ?  does  he  seek 
Marie  ?  is  he  here  ?  quick,  quick,  quick,  tell  me  where  he 
is !  he  must  never  come  to  poor  Marie  !  he  must  not  find 
us — tell  me,  Cosmo  !  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  He  spent  last  night  at  Norlaw — he  seeks  his  wife,"  said 
Cosmo,  when  she  was  out  of  breath ;  at  which  word  De 
siree  sprang  up  the  path  with  excited  haste  : — 

"  I  go  to  tell  mamma,"  she  said,  beckoning  Cosmo  to  fol 
low,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  disappeared  breathless  within 
the  open  door  of  Melmar,  leaving  him  still  behind. 


CHAPTER    LXYIII. 

MADAME  Roche  sat  by  herself  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Melmar — the  same  beautiful  old  lady  who  used  to  sit  work 
ing  behind  the  flowers  and  white  curtains  of  the  little 
second  floor  window  in  St.  Ouen.  The  room  itself  was 
changed  from  the  fine  disorderly  room  in  which  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ley  had  indulged  her  invalid  tastes,  and  Patricia  read  her 
poetry-books.  There  was  no  longer  a  loose  crumb-cloth  to 
trip  unwary  feet,  nor  rumpled  chintz  covers  to  conceal  the 
glory  of  the  damask  ;  and  there  was  a  wilderness  of  gild 
ing,  mirrors,  cornices,  chairs,  and  picture-frames,  which 
changed  the  sober  aspect  of  Melmar,  and  threw  a  some 
what  fanciful  and  foreign  character  upon  the  grave  Scotch 
apartment,  looking  out  through  its  three  windows  upon  the 
solemn  evergreens  and  homely  grass-plot,  which  had  under 
gone  no  change.  One  of  the  windows  was  open,  and  that 
was  garlanded  round,  like  a  cottage  window,  with  a  Inxuri- 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOKLAW.  345 

ance  of  honey  suckle  and  roses,  which  the  "  former  family" 
would  have  supposed  totally  unsuited  to  the  "  best  room  in 
the  house."  It  was  before  this  open  window,  with  the 
sweet  morning  breeze  waving  the  white  curtains  over  her, 
and  the  roses  leaning  in  in  little  crowds,  that  Madame  Roche 
sat.  She  was  reading — at  least  she  had  a  book  in  her  hand, 
among  the  leaves  of  which  the  sweet  air  rustled  playfully ; 
it  was  a  pious,  pretty  book  of  meditations,  which  suited  both 
the  time  and  the  reader,  and  she  sat  sometimes  looking  into 
it,  sometime  suffering  her  eyes  and  mind  to  stray,  with  a 
sweet  pensive  gravity  on  her  fair  old  face,  and  tender,  sub 
dued  thoughts  in  her  heart.  Madame  Roche  was  not  pro 
found  in  any  thing;  perhaps  there  was  not  very  much  depth 
in  those  pious  thoughts,  or  even  in  the  sadness  which  just 
overshadowed  them.  Perhaps  she  had  even  a  far-off  con- 
ciousness  that  Cosmo  Livingstone  saw  a  very  touching  little 
picture,  when  he  saw  the  mother  by  the  window  reading  the 
Sabbath  book  in  that  Sabbath  calm,  and  saying  prayers  in 
her  heart  for  poor  Marie.  But  do  not  blame  Madame  Roche 
— she  still  did  say  the  prayers,  and  out  of  an  honest  heart. 

When  Desiree  flew  into  the  room,  flushed  and  out  of 
breath,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  mother  so  suddenly, 
that  Madame  Roche's  composure  was  quite  overthrown : — 

"  Mamma,  mamma  !"  cried  Desiree,  in  what  was  almost  a 
scream,  though  it  was  under  her  breath,  "  listen — Pierrot  is 
here  ;  he  has  found  us  out." 

"  What,  child  ?  Pierrot  ?  It  is  impossible !"  cried  Mad 
ame  Roche. 

"  Things  that  are  impossible  are  always  true  !"  exclaimed 
the  breathless  Desiree  ;  "  he  is  here — Cosmo  has  seen  him  ; 
he  has  come  to  seek  Marie." 

"  Cosmo  ?  is  he  here  ?"  said  Madame  Roche,  rising.  The 
old  lady  had  become  quite  agitated,  and  her  voice  trembled. 
The  book  had  fallen  out  of  the  hands  which  she  clasped 
tightly  together,  in  her  fright  and  astonishment.  "  But  he 
is  mistaken,  Desiree  ;  he  does  not  know  Pierrot." 

When  Cosmo,  however,  came  forward  to  tell  his  own 
story,  Madame  Roche  became  still  more  disturbed  and  trou 
bled  :— 

"  To  come  now  I"  she  exclaimed  to  herself  with  another 
expressive  French  pressure  of  her  hands — "  to  come  now  ! 
Had  he  come  in  St.  Ouen.  when  we  were  poor,  I  could  have 

15* 


346  TI1E    LAIKD     OF    NOBLAW. 

borne  it ;  but  now,  perceive  you  what  will  happen,  Desiree  ? 
He  will  place  himself  here,  and  squander  our  goods  and 
make  us  despised.  He  will  call  my  poor  Marie  by  his  mean 
name — she,  a  Roche  de  St.  Martin !  and  she  will  be  glad  to 
have  it  so.  Alas,  my  poor  deluded  child!" 

"  Still  though  he  is  so  near,  he  has  not  found  you  yet ; 
and  if  he  does  find  you,  the  house  is  yours,  you  can  refuse 
him  admission  ;  let  me  remain,  in  case  you  should  want  me," 
said  Cosmo  eagerly ;  "  I  have  been  your  representative  ere 
now." 

Madame  Roche  was  Avalking  softly  about  the  room,  pre 
serving  through  all  her  trouble,  even  now  when  she  had  been 
five  years  in  this  great  house,  the  old  habit  of  restraining 
her  voice  and  step,  which  had  been  necessary  when  Marie 
lay  in  the  little  back  chamber  at  St.  Ouen,  within  constant 
hearing  of  her  mother.  She  stopped  for  an  instant  to  smile 
upon  her  young  advocate  and  supporter,  as  a  queen  might 
smile  upon  a  partisan  whose  zeal  was  more  than  his  wisdom  ; 
and  then  went  on  hurriedly  addressing  her  daughter. 

"  For  Marie,  poor  soul,  would  be  crazed  with  joy.  Ah, 
my  Desiree !  who  can  tell  me  what  to  do  ?  For  my  own 
pleasure,  my  own  comfort,  a  selfish  mother,  must  I  sacrifice 
my  child  ?" 

"  Mamma,"  cried  Desiree,  with  breathless  vehemence,  "  I 
love  Marie — I  would  give  my  life  for  her ;  but  if  Pierrot 
comes  to  Melmar,  I  will  go.  It  is  true — I  remember  him — 
I  will  not  live  with  Pierrot  in  one  house." 

Madame  Roche  clasped  her  hands  once  more,  and  cast  up 
her  eyes  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  What  can  I  do — what 
am  I  to  do  ?  I  am  a  woman  alone — I  have  no  one  to  advise 
me,"  she  cried,  pacing  softly  about  the  room,  with  her  clasp 
ed  hands  and  eyes  full  of  trouble.  Cosmo's  heart  was  quite 
moved  with  her  distress. 

"  Let  me  remain  with  you  to-day,"  said  Cosmo,  a  and  if 
he  comes,  permit  me  to  see  him.  You  can  trust  me.  If  you 
authorize  me  to  deny  him  admission,  he  certainly  shall  not 
enter  here." 

"  Ah,  my  friend  !"  cried  Madame  Roche.  "  Ah,  my  child  ! 
what  can  I  say  to  you  ?  Marie  loves  him." 

"  And  he  has  made  her  miserable,"  cried  Desiree,  with 
passion.  "  But,  because  she  loves  him,  you  will  let  him 
come  here  to  make  us  all  wretched.  I  knew  it  would  be  so. 


THE    LAIED     OF     NORLAW.  347 

She  loves  him— it  is  enough !  He  will  make  her  frantic — 
he  will  break  her  heart — he  will  insult  you,  me,  every  one  ! 
But  Marie  loves  him  !  and  so,  though  he  is  misery,  he  must 
come.  I  knew  it  would  be  so  ;  but  I  will  not  stay  to  see  it 
all — I  can  not !  I  will  never  stand  by  and  watch  while  he 
kills  Marie.  Mamma  !  mamma  !  will  you  be  so  cruel  ?  But 
I  can  not  speak — I  am  angry — wretched  !  I  will  go  to  Ma 
rie  and  nurse  her,  and  be  calm ;  but  if  Pierrot  comes,  Desi 
ree  will  stay  no  longer.  For  you  know  it  is  true  !" 

And  so  speaking  Desiree  went,  lingering  and  turning 
back  to  deliver  herself  always  of  a  new  exclamation,  to  the 
door,  out  of  which  she  disappeared  at  last,  still  protesting 
her  determination  with  violence  and  passion.  Madame 
Roche  stood  still,  looking  after  her.  There  was  great  dis 
tress  in  the  mother's  face,  but  it  did  not  take  that  lofty 
form  of  pain  which  her  child's  half-defiance  might  have  pro 
duced.  She  was  not  wounded  by  what  Desiree  said.  She 
turned  round  sighing  to  where  Cosmo  stood,  not  perfectly 
satisfied,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  the  bearing  of  his 
betrothed. 

"Poor  child!  she  feels  it!"  said  Madame  Roche,  "and, 
indeed,  it  is  true,  and  she  is  right ;  but  what  must  I  do,  my 
friend  ?  Marie  loves  him.  To  see  him  once  more  might 
restore  Marie." 

"Mademoiselle  Desiree  says  he  will  break  her  heart," 
said  Cosmo,  feeling  himself  bound  to  defend  the  lady  of  his 
love,  even  though  he  did  not  quite  approve  of  her. 

"  Do  not  say  mademoiselle.  She  is  of  this  country ;  she 
is  not  a  stranger,"  said  Madame  Roche  with  her  bright, 
usual  smile ;  "  and  he  will  break  her  heart  if  he  is  not 
changed;  do  I  not  know  it?  But  then — ah,  my  friend, 
you  are  young  and  impatient,  and  so  is  Desiree.  Would 
you  not  rather  have  your  wish  and  your  love,  though  it 
killed  you  to  have  it,  than  to  live  year  after  year  in  a  blank 
peacefulness  ?  It  is  thus  with  Marie ;  she  lives,  but  her 
life  does  not  make  her  glad.  She  loves  him — she  longs  for 
him ;  and  shall  I  know  how  her  heart  pines,  and  be  able  to 
give  her  joy,  yet  keep  silence,  as  though  I  knew  nothing  ? 
It  might  be  most  wise ;  but  I  am  not  wise — I  am  but  her 
mother — what  must  I  do  ?" 

"  You  will  not  give  her  a  momentary  pleasure,  at  the  risk 
of  more  serious  suffering,"  said  Cosmo,  with  great  gravity. 


348  THE    LAIRD     OF   NOEL  AW. 

But  the  tears  caine  to  Madame  Roche's  eyes.  She  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hand.  "It 
would  be  joy ! — can  I  deny  her  joy  ?  for  she  loves  him," 
faltered  Marie's  mother.  As  he  looked  at  her  with  impa 
tient,  yet  tender  eyes,  the  young  man  forgave  Desiree  for 
her  impatience.  How  was  it  possible  to  deal  calmly  with 
the  impracticable  sentiment  and  "  feelings"  of  Madame 
Roche  ? 

"I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  myself,"  said  Cosmo.  "I 
can  not  speak  of  myself  in  the  midst  of  this  trouble  ;  but  I 
beg  you  to  think  better  of  it.  If  he  is  all  that  you  say,  do 
not  admit  him  here." 

"  Of  yourself?"  said  Madame  Roche,  removing  her  hand 
from  her  face,  and  stretching  out  to  him  that  tender  white 
hand  which  was  still  as  soft  and  fair  as  if  it  had  been  young 
instead  of  old.  "  My  child,  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  to  forget 
you  who  have  been  so  good  to  us.  Tell  me  what  it  is  about 
yourself?" 

And  as  she  smiled  and  bent  towards  him,  Cosmo's  heart 
beat  high,  half  with  hope,  half  with  shame,  for  he  felt  guilty 
when  he  remembered  that  neither  himself  nor  Desiree  had 
confessed  their  secret  betrothal  to  Desiree's  mother.  In 
spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  shadow  of  blame 
thrown  upon  Desiree,  and  the  thought  wounded  him.  He 
was  full  of  the  unreasonable,  romantic  love  of  youth.  He 
could  not  bear,  by  the  merest  instinctive  secret  action  of  his 
mind,  to  acknowledge  a  defect  in  her. 

"You  say,  'Marie  loves  him'— that  is  reason  enough  for 
a  great  sacrifice  from  you,"  cried  Cosmo,  growing  out  of 
breath  with  anxiety  and  agitation ;  "  and  Desiree — and  I, 
— what  will  you  say  to  us  ?  Oh,  madame,  you  are  kind, 
you  are  very  kind.  Be  more  than  my  friend,  and  give 
Desiree  to  me !" 

"  Desiree !" — Madame  Roche  rose  up,  supporting  herself 
by  her  chair — "  Desiree !  but  she  knows  she  is  destined 
otherwise — you  know — Desiree  !"  cried  Madame  Roche, 
clasping  her  pretty  hands  in  despair.  "  She  is  dedicated — 
she  is  under  a  vow — she  has  to  do  justice  !  My  friend 
Cosmo — my  son — my  young  deliverer ! — do  not — do  not 
ask  this !  It  breaks  my  heart  to  say  no  to  you  ;  but  I  can 
never,  never  give  you  Desiree  !" 

"Why?"  said   Cosmo,  almost   sternly.     "You   talk   of 


THE    LA1KD     OF    NOEL  AW.  349 

love — will  you  deny  its  claim  ?  Desiree  does  not  say  no. 
I  ask  you  again,  give  her  to  me !  My  love  will  never 
wound  her  nor  break  her  heart.  I  do  not  want  the  half  of 
your  estate,  and  neither  does  my  brother !  Give  me  De 
siree — I  can  work  for  her,  and  she  would  be  content  to 
share  my  fortune.  She  is  content — I  have  her  own  word 
for  it.  I  demand  it  of  you  for  true  love's  sake,  madame — 
you,  who  speak  of  love !  Give  her  to  me  !" 

"Alas!"  cried  Madame  Roche,  wringing  her  hands — 
"  alas !  my  child !  I  speak  of  love  because  Marie  is  his 
wife ;  but  a  young  girl  is  different !  She  must  obey  her 
destiny!  You  are  young — you  will  forget  it.  A  year 
hence,  you  will  smile  when  you  think  of  your  passion.  No 
— my  friend  Cosmo,  hear  me !  No,  no,  you  must  not  have 
Desiree — I  will  give  you  any  thing  else  in  this  world  that 
you  wish,  if  I  can  procure  it,  but  Desiree  is  destined  other 
wise.  No,  no,  I  can  not  change — you  can  not  have  De 
siree  !" 

And  on  this  point  the  tender  and  soft  Madame  Roche 
was  inexorable — no  intreaty,  no  remonstrance,  no  argument 
could  move  her!  She  stood  her  ground  with  a  gentle 
iteration  which  drove  Cosmo  wild.  No,  no,  no ;  any  thing 
but  Desiree.  She  was  grieved  for  him — ready  to  take  him 
into  her  arms  and  weep  over  him — but  perfectly  impenetra 
ble  in  her  tender  and  tearful  obstinacy.  And  when,  at  last, 
Cosmo  rushed  from  the  house,  half  mad  with  love,  disap 
pointment,  and  mortification,  forgetting  all  about  Pierrot 
and  everybody  else  save  the  Desiree  who  was  never  to  be 
his,  Madame  Roche  sat  down,  wiping  her  eyes  and  full  of 
grief,  but  without  the  faintest  idea  of  relinquishing  the 
plans  by  which  her  daughter  was  to  compensate  Huntley 
Livingstone  for  the  loss  of  Melrnar. 


CHAPTER     LXIX. 

WHEN  Cosmo  rushed  forth  from  Melmar  with  his  heart 
a-flame,  and  made  his  way  out  through  the  trees  to  the  un 
sheltered  and  dusty  highway,  the  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bells 
was  just  beginning  to  fall  through  the  soft  summer  air,  so 


350  THE    LAIKD     OP     NORLAW. 

bright  with  the  sunshine  of  the  morning.  Somehow,  the 
sound  seemed  to  recall  him,  in  a  moment,  to  the  sober  home 
life  out  of  which  he  had  rushed  into  this  feverish  episode  and 
crisis  of  his  own  existence.  His  heart  was  angry,  and  sore, 
and  wounded.  To  think  of  the  usual  familiar  routine  of  life 
disgusted  him — his  impulse  was  to  fly  out  of  everybody's 
reach,  and  separate  himself  from  a  world  where  everybody 
was  ready  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  others  to  the  merest 
freak  or  crochet  of  his  own.  But  the  far  off  tinkle  of  the 
Kirkbride  bell,  though  it  was  no  wonder  of  harmony,  drop 
ped  into  Cosmo's  ear  and  heart  like  the  voice  of  an  angel. 
Just  then,  his  mother,  proudly  leaning  upon  Huntley's  arm, 
was  going  up  the  bank  of  Tyne  to  thank  God  for  her  son's 
return.  Just  then,  Desiree,  who  had  left  Melmar  before  him, 
was  walking  softly,  in  her  white  summer  robes,  to  the  Sab 
bath  service,  little  doubting  to  see  Cosmo  there ;  and  out  of 
all  the  country  round,  the  rural  families,  in  little  groups, 
were  coining  up  every  path,  all  tending  toward  the  same 
place.  Cosmo  sprang  impatiently  over  a  stile,  and  made  his 
way  through  a  corn  field,  where  the  rustling  green  corn  on 
either  side  of  the  path,  just  bursting  from  the  blade,  was 
almost  as  tall  as  himself.  He  did  not  care  to  meet  the 
church  goers,  who  would  not  have  been  slow  to  remark  upon 
his  heated  and  uneasy  looks,  or  even  upon  the  novel  circum 
stance  of  his  being  here  instead  of  at  "  the  kirk."  This 
same  fact  of  itself  communicated  an  additional  discomfort 
to  Cosmo.  He  felt  in  his  conscience,  which  was  young  and 
tender,  the  unsabbatical  and  agitating  manner  in  which  he 
had  spent  the  Sabbath  morning,  and  the  bell  seemed  ringing 
reproaches  into  his  ear  as  he  hastened  through  the  rustling 
corn.  Perhaps  not  half  a  dozen  times  before  in  his  life,  save 
during  the  time  of  his  travels,  had  Cosmo  voluntarily  occu 
pied  the  Sabbath  morning  with  uses  of  his  own.  He  had 
dreamed  through  its  sacred  hours  many  a  time,  for  he  was 
"  in  love"  and  a  poet ;  but  his  dreams  had  gone  on  to  the 
cadence  of  the  new  minister's  sermon,  and  taken  a  sweeter 
echo  out  of  the  rural  psalms  and  thanksgivings  ;  and  he  felt 
as  a  Scottish  youth  of  religious  training  was  like  to  feel  un 
der  such  circumstances — his  want  of  success  and  present 
unhappiness  increased  by  the  consciousness  that  he  was  using 
the  weekly  rest  for  his  own  purposes,  thinking  his  own 
thoughts,  doing  his  own  business,  and  filling,  with  all  the 


THE     LAIRD     OF     NOEL  AW.  351 

human  agitation  of  fears  and  hopes,  selfish  and  individual, 
the  holy  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  day. 

And  when  Cosmo  reached  Norlaw,  which  was  solitary 
and  quiet  like  a  house  deserted,  and  when  the  little  girl  who 
helped  Marget  in  the  dairy  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  clean 
table  in  the  kitchen,  where,  with  her  Bible  open  before  her, 
she  was  seeking  out  "  proofs"  for  her  "  questions,"  to  let 
him  in,  not  without  a  wondering  air  of  disapproval,  the  feel 
ing  grew  even  stronger.  He  threw  himself  into  his  mother's 
easy-chair,  in  the  dining-parlor,  feeling  the  silence  grow  upon 
him  like  a  fascination.  Even  the  Mistress's  work-basket  was 
put  out  of  the  way,  and  there  was  no  open  book  here  to  be 
ruffled  by  the  soft  air  from  the  open  window.  Upon  the 
table  was  the  big  Bible,  the  great  jug  full  of  red  roses,  and 
that  volume  of  IIervey\s  Meditations,  which  the  Mistress 
had  certainly  not  been  reading — and  the  deep,  unbroken 
Sabbath  stillness  brooded  over  him  as  if  it  were  something 
positive  and  actual,  and  not  a  mere  absence  of  sound.  And 
as  he  thought  of  it,  the  French  household  at  Melmar,  with 
its  fancies,  its  agitations,  its  romantic  plans  and  troubles  of 
feeling,  looked  more  and  more  to  Cosmo  discordant  and  in 
harmonious  with  the  time;  and  he  himself  jarred  like  a 
chord  out  of  tune  upon  this  calm  of  the  house  and  the  Sab 
bath  ;  jarred  strangely,  possessed  as  he  was  by  an  irritated 
and  injured  self-consciousness — that  bitter  sensation  of  wrong 
and  disappointment,  which  somehow  seemed  to  separate 
Cosmo  from  every  thing  innocent  and  peaceful  in  the  world. 

For  why  was  it  always  so — always  a  perennial  conspiracy, 
some  hard,  arbitrary  will  laying  its  bar  upon  the  course  of 
nature  ?  Cosmo's  heart  was  sore  within  him  with  something 
more  than  a  vexed  contemplation  of  the  anomaly,  with  an 
immediate,  pursuing,  hard  mortification  of  his  own.  He 
was  bitterly  impatient  of  Madame  Roche  in  this  new  and 
strange  phase  of  her  character,  and  strangely  perplexed  how 
to  meet  it.  For  Cosmo  had  a  poetic  jealousy  of  the  honor 
and  spirit  of  his  best  beloved.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
bear  it,  if  Desiree  for  his  sake  defied  her  mother — he  could 
not  tolerate  the  idea  that  she  was  like  to  do  so,  yet  longed, 
and  feared,  and  doubted,  full  of  the  most  contradictory  and 
unreasonable  feelings,  and  sure  only  of  being  grieved  and 
displeased  whatever  might  happen.  So  he  felt  as  he  sat  by 
himself,  with  his  eyes  vacantly  fixed  upon  the  red  roses  and 


352  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

the  big  Bible,  wondering,  impatient,  anxious  beyond  meas 
ure,  to  know  what  Desiree  would  do. 

But  that  whole  silent  day  passed  over  him  unenlightened  ; 
lie  got  through  the  inevitable  meals  he  could  scarcely  tell 
how — replied"  or  did  not  reply  to  his  mother's  remarks, 
which  he  scarcely  noticed  were  spoken  at,  and  not  to  him, 
wandered  out  in  the  afternoon  to  Tyneside  and  the  Kelpie, 
without  finding  any  one  there — and  finally,  with  a  pang  of 
almost  unbearable  rebellion,  submitted  to  the  night  and 
sleep  which  he  could  not  avoid.  To-morrow  he  had  to  re 
turn  to  Edinburgh,  to  go  away,  leaving  his  brother  in  pos 
session  of  the  field — his  brother,  to  whom  Madame  Roche 
meant  to  ffiue  Desiree,  in  compensation  for  his  lost  fortune. 
Cosmo  had  forgotten  all  about  Katie  Logan  by  this  time  ; 
it  was  not  difficult,  for  he  knew  scarcely  any  thing ;  and  with 
a  young  lover's  natural  pride  and  vanity,  could  not  doubt 
that  any  man  in  the  world  would  be  but  too  eager  to  con 
tend  with  him  for  such  a  prize  as  Desiree  Roche. 

And  to-morrow  he  had  to  go  away ! — to  return  to  Mr. 
Todhunter's  office,  to  read  all  the  trashy  stories,  all  the 
lamentable  criticisms,  all  the  correspondence,  making  small 
things  great,  which  belonged  to  the  Aul'd Reekie  Magazine. 
Cosmo  had  not  hitherto  during  his  life  been  under  much 
compulsion  of  the  must,  and  accordingly  found  it  all  the 
harder  to  consent  to  it  now.  And  he  was  growing  very 
weary  of  his  occupation  besides.  He  had  got  a  stage  be 
yond  his  youthful  facility  of  rhyme,  and  was,  to  say  the 
truth,  a  little  ashamed  now  of  his  verses,  and  of  those  flow 
ery  prose  papers,  which  the  Mistress  still  read  with  delight. 
He  began  to  suspect  that  literature,  after  all,  was  not  his  vo 
cation,  and  at  this  moment  would  rather  have  carried  a 
laborer's  hod,  or  followed  the  plow,  than  gone  to  that  mer 
chandise  of  words  which  awaited  him  in  Edinburgh.  So 
he  rose,  sullen  and  discontented,  ready  to  quarrel  with  any 
or  every  one  who  thwarted  him,  and  feeling  toward  Hunt- 
ley  rather  more  like  an  enemy  than  like  a  brother. 

And  Cosmo  had  but  just  risen  from  the  early  breakfast 
table  when  a  note  was  put  into  his  hand.  Marget  brought 
it  to  him,  with  rather  an  ostentation  of  showing  what  she 
brought,  and  Cosmo  had  to  read  it  under  the  eyes  of  his 
mother  and  Huntley,  neither  of  whom  could  help  casting 
many  glances  at  the  young  man's  disturbed  face.  It  was  the 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOKLAW.  353 

first  letter  he  had  ever  received  from  Desiree — no  wonder 
that  he  hurried  out  when  he  had  glanced  at  it,  and  did  not 
hear  that  the  Mistress  called  him  back ;  for  it  was  a  very 
tantalizing,  unsatisfactory  communication.  This  is  what  De 
siree  said : — 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  Why  are  you  so  restless,  so  irn- 
.patient — why  do  you  not  be  calm  and  wait  like  me  ? 
Mamma  has  set  her  heart  upon  what  she  says.  She  will  not 
yield  if  you  pray  to  her  forever.  She  loves  me,  she  loves 
you;  it  would  make  her  happy;  but,  alas,  poor  mamma! 
She  has  set  her  thoughts  upon  the  other,  and  Avill  not  change. 
Why  do  you  vex  her,  you,  me,  every  one  ?  Be  silent,  and 
all  will  be  well. 

"  For  I  am  not  in  haste,  Monsieur  Cosmo,  if  you  are.  I 
am  able  to  wait — me  !  I  know  you  went  away  in  great 
anger,  and  did  not  come  to  church,  and  were  cross  all  day, 
and  your  mother  will  think  I  am  to  blame.  But  if  you  will 
be  impatient,  am  I  to  blame  ?  I  tell  you  to  wait,  as  I  shall, 
to  be  good  and  silent,  and  see  what  will  happen  ;  but  you 
do  not  regard  me. 

"Farewell,  then,  for  a  week.  I  write  to  you  because  I 
can  not  help  it  this  time,  but  I  will  not  write  again.  Be 
content,  then,  restless  boy  ;  au  revoir  ! 

"  DESIREE." 

Cosmo  turned  it  round  and  round,  and  over  and  over,  but 
nothing  more  was  to  be  made  of  it.  Desiree  had  not  con 
templated  the  serious  discontent  of  her  lover.  She  thought 
he  would  understand  and  be  satisfied  with  her  playful  let 
ter,  and  required  nothing  more  serious.  Perhaps,  had  she 
thought  he  required  something  more  serious,  the  capricious 
little  Frenchwoman  would  have  closed  her  heart  and  refused 
it.  But,  however  that  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  Cosmo  was 
by  no  means  so  much  pleased  as  he  expected  to  be  when  he 
saw  the  note  first,  and  prepared  himself  to  leave  home  with 
feelings  scarcely  at  all  ameliorated,  shaking  hands  abruptly 
with  Huntley,  and  having  a  very  cold  parting  with  his 
mother.  He  carried  a  discontented  heart  away  with  him, 
and  left  discontent  and  vexation  behind,  and  so  trudged 
into  Kirkbride,  and  drove  away  to  Edinburgh  on  the  top  of 
the  coach,  troubled  with  the  people  behind  and  the  things 
before  him,  and  in  the*most  unamiable  humor  in  the  world. 


354  THE     LAIKD     OF     NOELA.W. 


CHAPTER    LXX. 

"  WELL,  Huntley,  and  what's  your  opinion  of  our  grand 
new  neighbors  ?"  said  the  Mistress.  They  were  returning 
together  on  that  same  Monday  from  a  formal  call  at  Melmar ; 
perhaps  the  first  time  on  which  the  Mistress's  visit  to  Madame 
Roche  had  been  made  with  any  pleasure.  Mrs.  Livingstone 
came  proudly  through  the  Melmar  grounds,  leaning  upon 
Huntley's  arm.  She  had  gone  to  exhibit  her  son;  half  con 
sciously  to  exult  over  her  richer  neighbor,  who  had  no  sons, 
and  to  see  with  her  own  eyes  how  Huntley  was  pleased  with 
his  new  friends. 

"  I  think,"  said  Huntley,  warmly,  "  that  it  is  no  wonder 
people  raved  about  Mary  of  Melmar.  She  is  beautiful  now." 

"  So  she  is,"  said  the  Mistress,  rather  shortly.  "  I  canna 
say  I  am  ony  great  judge  mysel'.  She's  taen  good  care  ot 
her  looks — oh  ay,  I  dinna  doubt  she  is." 

"  But  her  daughters  don't  seem  to  inherit  it,"  added 
Huntley. 

"Ay,  lad — would  ye  say  no'  ? — no'  the  little  one  ?"  said 
the  Mistress,  looking  up  jealously  in  his  face.  She  was  the 
very  reverse  of  a  matchmaker,  but  perhaps  it  is  true  that 
women  instinctively  occupy  themselves  with  this  interesting 
subject.  The  Mistress  had  not  forgotten  Katie  Logan,  but 
in  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  thought  it  just  possible  that 
Huntley  might  cast  a  favorable  eye  upon  Desiree. 

"No,  not  the  little  one,"  said  Huntley,  laughing ;  "  though 
I  like  her  best  of  the  two  ;  and  was  it  that  invalid  whom 
you  supposed  the  wife  of  Pierrot  ?  Impossible  ! — any  thing 
so  fragile  and  delicate  would  never  have  married  such  a 
fellow." 

"  She's  delicate,  no  doubt,"  said  the  Mistress,  "but  to  be 
weakly  in  body  is  no'  to  be  tender  in  the  mind.  Eh,  what's 
that  among  the  trees  ? — black  and  ill  favored,  and  a  muckle 
cloak  about  him — it's  just  the  villain's  sel'  !" 

"  Hush,  he  sees  us,"  said  Huntley ;  u  let  us  meet  him  and 
hear  if  he  is  going  to  Melmar.  It  seems  unbelievable  that 
so  gentle  an  invalid  should  be  his  wife." 

The  Mistress  only  said  "Humph!"  She  was  sorry  for 
Marie,  but  not  very  favorable  to  her— though  at  sight  of  the 


THE    LALED    OF    NORLAW.  355 

Frenchman  all  her  sympathies  were  immediately  enlisted  on 
behalf  of  his  devoted  wife.  Pierrot  would  have  avoided 
them  if  he  could,  but  as  that  was  impossible,  he  came  for 
ward  with  a  swaggering  air,  throwing  his  cloak  loose,  and 
exhibiting  a  morning  toilette  worthy  of  an  ambitious  tailor 
or  a  gentleman's  gentleman.  He  took  off  his  hat  with  elab 
orate  politeness,  and  made  the  Mistress  a  very  fine  bow, 
finer  than  any  thing  wrhich  she  had  seen  in  these  parts  for 
many  a  day. 

"  Let  me  trust  you  found  Madame  Pierrot,  my  charming 
wife,  well  and  visible,"  said  the  adventurer,  with  a  second 
ironical  obeisance,  "  and  my  gracious  lady,  her  mamma,  and 
pretty  Desiree  ?  I  go  to  make  myself  known  to  them,  and 
receive  their  embraces.  I  am  excited,  overjoyed — can  you 
wonder  ?  I  have  not  seen  my  wife  for  ten  years." 

"And  might  have  suffered  that  trial  still,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  siller,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  eh,  man,  to  think 
of  a  woman  in  her  senses  taking  up  with  the  like  of  you !" 

Fortunately  the  Mistress's  idiomatic  expressions,  which 
might  not  have  been  over  agreeable  had  they  been  under 
stood,  were  not  quite  comprehensible  to  Monsieur  Pierrot. 
He  only  knew  that  they  meant  offense,  and  smiled  and 
showed  his  white  teeth  in  admiration  of  the  malice  which 
he  only  guessed  at. 

"  I  go  to  my  castle,  my  chateau,  my  fortune,"  he  said ; 
"where  I  shall  have  pleasure  in  repaying  your  hospitality. 
I  shall  be  a  good  host.  I  shall  make  myself  popular. 
Pierrot  of  Mel-mar  will  be  known  everywhere — it  is  not 
often  that  your  dull  coteries  are  refreshed  by  the  coming  of 
a  gentleman  from  my  country.  But  I  am  too  impatient  to 
linger  longer  than  politeness  demands.  I  have  the  honor  to 
bid  you  very  good  morning.  I  go  to  my  Marie." 

Saying  which,  he  swaggered  past  with  his  cloak  hanging 
over  his  shoulders — a  romantic  piece  of  drapery  which  was 
more  picturesque  than  comfortable  on  this  summer  day. 
The  Mistress  paused  to  look  after  him,  clasping  with  rather 
an  urgent  pressure  her  son's  arm,  and  with  an  impulse  of 
impatient  pity  moving  her  heart. 

"  I  could  never  bear  a  stranger  nigh  in  my  troubles,"  she 
cried,  at  last,  "  but  yon  woman's  no'  like  me.  She's  used 
to  lean  upon  other  folk.  What  can  she  do,  with  that  poor 
failing  creature  at  one  side  of  her  and  this  villain  at  the 


356  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOEL  AW. 

other  ?  Huntley,  my  man  !  she's  nae  friend  of  mine,  but 
she's  a  lone  woman,  and  you're  her  kinsman.  Go  back  and 
give  her  your  countenance  to  send  the  vagabone  away !" 

"  Mother,  I  am  a  stranger,"  cried  Huntley,  with  surprise 
and  embarrassment ;  "  what  could  I  do  for  her  ?  how  could 
I  venture  indeed  to  intrude  myself  into  their  private  affairs  ? 
Cosmo  might  have  done  it  who  knows  them  well,  but  I — I 
can  not  see  a  chance  of  serving  them,  perhaps  quite  the  re 
verse.  If  you  are  right,  this  man  belongs  to  the  family,  and 
blood  is  thicker  than  water.  No,  no  ;  of  course  I  will  do 
what  you  wish,  if  you  wish  it ;  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  an 
office  for  me." 

And  the  Mistress,  whose  heart  had  been  moved  with  com 
passion  for  the  other  widow  who  had  no  son,  and  who  had 
suggested  voluntarily  that  Huntley  should  help  her,  could 
not  help  feeling  pleased  nor  being  ashamed  of  her  pleasure, 
when  he  declined  the  office.  He,  at  least,  was  not  "  carried 
away"  by  the  fascinations  of  Mary  of  Melmar.  She  took  a 
secret  pleasure  in  his  disobedience.  It  soothed  the  feelings 
which  Cosmo's  divided  love  had  aggrieved. 

"  Weel,  maybe  it's  wisest ;  they  ken  best  themselves  how 
their  ain  hearts  are  moved — and  a  strange  person's  a  great 
hindrance  in  trouble.  jTcouldna  thole  it  mysel',"  said  the 
Mistress;  "I  canna  help  them,  it's  plain  enough — so  we'll 
do  little  good  thinking  upon  it.  But,  Huntley,  my  man, 
what's  your  first  beginning  to  be,  now  that  you  are  hame  ?" 

At  this  question,  Huntley  looked  his  mother  full  in  the 
face,  with  a  startled,  anxious  glance,  and  grew  crimson,  but 
said  not  a  word ;  to  which  the  Mistress  replied  by  a  look, 
also  somewhat  startled,  and  almost  for  the  moment  resent 
ful.  She  did  not  save  him  from  his  embarrassment  by  in 
troducing  then  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart.  She  knew, 
and  could  not  doubt  what  it  was,  but  she  kept  silent,  watch 
ing  him  keenly,  and  waiting  for  his  first  words.  Madame 
Roche  would  have  thrown  herself  into  his  arms  and  wept 
with  an  effusion  of  tenderness  and  sympathy,  but  this  was 
the  Mistress,  who  was  long  out  of  practice  of  love-matters, 
and  who  felt  her  sons  more  deeply  dear  to  her  own  heart 
than  ever  lover  was  in  the  world.  So  it  was  with  a  little 
faltering  that  Huntley  spoke. 

"  It  is  seven  years  since  I  went  away,  and  she  was  only  a 
girl  then — only  a  girl,  though  like  a  mother.  I  wonder 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  357 

what  change  they  have  made  upon  Katie  Logan,  these  seven 
years  ?" 

"  She's  a  good  lassie,"  said  the  Mistress ;  "  eh,  Huntley, 
I'm  ower  proud  ! — I  think  naebody  like  my  sons  ;  but  she's 
a  very  good  lassie.  I  havena  a  word  to  say  against  her,  no' 
me  !  I  canna  take  strangers  easy  into  my  heart,  but  Katie 
Logan's  above  blame.  You  ken  best  yoursel'  what  you've 
said  to  one  another,  her  and  you — but  I  canna  blame  ye 
thinking  upon  her — na,"  said  the  Mistress,  clearing  her 
throat,  "  I  am  thankful  to  the  Almighty  for  putting  such 
a  good  bairn  into  your  thoughts.  I'm  a  hard  woman  in  my 
ain  heart,  Huntley.  I'll  just  say  it  out  once  for  a'.  You've 
a'  been  so  precious  to  me,  that  at  the  first  dinnle  I  canna 
bide  to  think  that  nane  of  you  soon  will  belong  to  your 
mother.  That's  a' — for  you  see  I  never  had  a  daughter  of 
my  ain." 

The  Mistress  ended  this  speech,  which  was  a  long  speech 
for  her,  with  great  abruptness,  and  put  up  her  hand  hur 
riedly  to  wipe  something  from  her  eye.  She  could  be  angry 
with  Cosmo,  who  confided  nothing  to  her,  but  her  loving, 
impatient  heart  could  not  stand  against  the  frankness  of  his 
brother.  She  made  her  confession  hurriedly,  and  with  a 
certain  obstinate  determination — hastily  wiped  the  unwil 
ling  tear  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  the  next  moment 
lifted  her  head  with  all  her  inalienable  spirit,  ready,  if  the 
smallest  advantage  was  taken  of  her  confession,  to  gird  on  her 
armor  on  the  moment,  and  resist  all  concessions  to  the  death. 

But  Huntley  was  wise.  "  We  have  said  nothing  to  each 
other,"  he  answered  quickly,  "  Ibut  I  would  fain  see  Katie 
first  of  all." 

This  was  about  the  sum  of  the  whole  matter — neither 
mother  nor  son  cared  to  add  much  to  this  simple  under 
standing.  Katie  had  been  absent  from  Kirkbride  between 
four  and  five  years,  and  during  all  that  time  the  Mistress 
had  only  seen  her  once,  and  not  a  syllable  of  correspon 
dence  had  passed  between  her  and  Huntley.  It  might  be 
that  she  had  long  ago  forgotten  Huntley ;  it  might  be  that 
Katie  never  cared  for  him,  save  writh  that  calm  regard 
of  friendship  which  Huntley  did  not  desire  from  her.  It 
was  true  that  the  Mistress  remembered  Katie's  eyes  and 
Katie's  face  on  that  night,  long  ago,  when  a  certain  subtle 
consciousness  of  the  one  love  which  was  in  the  hearts  of 


358  THE     LAIRD     OF     NORLAW. 

both,  gave  the  minister's  daughter  a  sudden  entrance  into 
the  regard  of  Huntley's  mother.  But  the  Mistress  did  not 
tell  Huntley  of  that  night.  "  It's  nc  for  me  to  do,"  said  the 
Mistress  to  herself,  when  she  had  reached  home,  with  a  mo 
mentary  quiver  of  her  proud  lip.  "  Na,  if  she  minds  upon 
my  Huntley  still — and  wha  could  forget  him  ? — I've  nae 
right  to  take  the  words  out  of  Katie's  mouth  ;  and  he'll  be 
all  the  happier,  my  puir  laddie,  to  hear  it  from  hersel'." 

It  was  a  magnanimous  thought ;  and  somehow  this  self- 
denial  and  abnegation — this  reluctant  willingness  to  relin 
quish  now  at  last  that  first  place  in  her  son's  heart,  which 
had  been  so  precious  to  the  Mistress,  shed  an  insensible 
brightness  that  day  over  Norlaw.  One  could  not  have  told 
whence  it  came  ;  yet  it  brightened  over  the  house,  a  secret 
sunshine,  and  Huntley  and  his  mother  were  closer  friends 
than,  perhaps,  they  had  ever  been  before.  If  Cosmo  could 
but  have  found  this  secret  out ! 


CHAPTER    LXXI. 

IN  the  meantime,  Cosmo,  angry  with  himself  and  every 
body  else,  went  into  Edinburgh  to  his  weekly  labor.  It  was 
such  lovely  summer  weather,  that  even  Edinburgh,  being  a 
town,  was  less  agreeable  than  it  -is  easy  to  suppose  that 
fairest  of  cities;  for  though  the  green  hill  heights  were 
always  there  to  refresh  everybody's  eyes,  clouds  of  dust 
blew  up  and  down  the  hilly  streets  of  the  new  town,  which 
had  even  still  less  acquaintance  then  than  now  with  the  bene 
volent  sprinkling  of  the  water-carts.  If  one  could  choose  the 
easiest  season  for  one's  troubles,  one  would  not  choose  June, 
when  all  the  world  is  gay,  and  when  Nature  looks  most  piti 
less  to  sad  hearts.  Sad  hearts  !  Let  every  one  who  reads 
forgive  a  natural  selfishness — it  is  the  writer  of  this  story,  who 
has  nothing  to  do  with  its  events,  who  yet  can  not  choose 
but  make  her  sorrowful  outcry  against  the  sunshine,  sweet 
sunshine,  smiling  out  of  the  heart  of  heaven  !  which  makes 
the  soul  of  the  sorrowful  sick  within  them.  It  is  not  the 
young  hero  in  the  agitation  of  his  young  troubles — warm 


THE    LAIED     OF     NOELAW.  859 

discontents  and  contests  of  life — the  struggles  of  the  morn 
ing.  Yet  Cosmo  was  vexed  and  aggravated  by  the  light,  and 
heat,  and  brightness  of  the  fair  listless  day,  which  did  not 
seem  made  for  working  in.  He  could  not  take  his  seat  at  Mr. 
Todhunter's  writing-table,  laden  with  scraps  of  cut-up  news 
papers,  with  bundles  of  "  copy,"  black  from  the  lingers  of  the 
printers,  and  heaps  of  proof  sheets.  He  could  not  sit  down 
to  read  through  silly  romances,  or  prune  the  injudicious  ex 
uberance  of  young  contributors.  Unfortunately,  the  con 
tributors  to  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine  were  almost  all 
young ;  it  had  not  turned  out  such  an  astounding  "  start" 
as  the  Edinburgh  Review  •  it  had  fallen  into  the  hands  ot 
young  men  at  college,  who,  indisputably,  in  that  period  ot 
their  development,  however  great  they  may  become  event 
ually,  are  not  apt  to  distinguish  themselves  in  literature  ; 
and  Cosmo,  who  had  just  outgrown  the  happy  complacence 
of  that  period,  was  proportionately  intolerant  of  its  mistakes 
and  arrogances,  and  complained  (within  himself)  of  his  un 
congenial,  vocation  and  unfortunate  fate.  He  was  not  fit  to 
be  editor  of  the  Auld  Reekie.  He  was  not  able  for  the 
labor  dire  and  weary  woe  of  revising  the  papers  which  were 
printed,  and  glancing  over  those  which  were  not — in  short, 
he  was  totally  dissatisfied  with  himself,  his  position  and  his 
prospects.  Very  probably,  but  for  his  love-dream,  Cosmo 
would  have  launched  himself  upon  the  bigger  sea  in  Lon 
don,  another  forlorn  journeyman  of  literature,  half  conscious 
that  literature  was  not  the  profession  to  which  he  was  born ; 
but  the  thought  of  Desiree  held  him  back  like  a  chain  of 
gold.  He  could  see  her  every  week  while  he  remained  here, 
and  beyond  that  office  of  Mr.  Todhunter's  in  which  perse 
verance  and  assiduity,  and  those  other  sober  virtues  which 
are  not  too  interesting  generally  to  young  men,  might  some 
time  make  him  a  partner,  Cosmo  could  not  for  his  life  have 
told  any  one  what  he  would  do. 

After  he  had  endured  his  work  as  long  as  he  could  in  this 
quiet  little  den,  which  Mr.  Todhunter  shared  with  him,  and 
where  that  gentleman  was  busy,  as  usual,  with  paste  and 
scissors,  Cosmo  at  last  tossed  an  unreadable  story  into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  and  starting  up,  got  his  hat.  His  com 
panion  only  glanced  up  at  him  with  an  indignant  reproof. 

"  What !  tired?  Are  they  so  awful  bad  ?"  said  Mr.  Tod- 
hunter  ;  but  this  model  of  a  bookseller  said  no  more  when 


360  THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW. 

his  young  deputy  sallied  out  with  a  nod  and  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders.  The  proprietor  of  the  Auld  Reekie  Magazine 
was  one  of  those  rare  and  delightful  persons — Heaven  bless 
their  simple  souls  ! — who  have  an  inalienable  reverence  for 
"  genius,"  and  believe  in  its  moods  and  vagaries  with  the 
devoutness  of  a  saint. 

"  Of  course  I  would  exact  common  hours  from  a  common 
young  man,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter,  "  but  a  lad  of  genius  is 
another  matter.  When  he's  in  the  vein,  he'll  get  through 
with  his  work  like  a  giant.  I've  seen  him  write  four  papers 
with  his  own  hand  after  the  twenty-third  of  the  month,  and 
the  magazine  as  sharp  to  its  time,  notwithstanding,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  year  preparing.  He's  not  a  common  lad,  my 
sub-editor;" — and  Cosmo  quite  took  credit  with  his  em 
ployer  on  the  score  of  his  fits  of  varying  energy  and  his 
irregular  hours. 

Cosmo,  however,  sauntered  away  through  the  bright  and 
busy  streets  without  giving  himself  so  much  credit.  The 
young  man  was  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  self-displeased, 
and  aggravated.  He  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  not  the 
impatience  of  genius,  but  only  a  restless  and  disturbed 
mind,  which  made  his  work  intolerable  on  that  long  sum 
mer  afternoon.  He  was  thinking  of  Desiree,  who  would 
not  bear  thinking  of,  and  whom  he  supposed  himself  to  have 
bitterly  and  proudly  relinquished — of  Madame  Roche,  with 
her  ridiculous  fancy  in  respect  to  Huntley — and  of  Hunt- 
ley  himself,  who  it  was  just  possible  might  accept  it,  and 
take  Desiree's  reluctant  hand.  It  seemed  to  Cosmo  the 
strangest,  miserable  perversion  of  everybody's  happiness ; 
and  he  could  not  help  concluding  upon  all  this  wrong  and 
foolishness  coming  to  pass,  with  all  the  misanthropical  cer 
tainty  of  disappointed  youth.  Cosmo  even  remembered  to 
think  of  Katie  Logan,  by  way  of  exaggerating  his  own  dis 
content — Katie,  who  quite  possibly  had  been  faithful  to 
Huntley's  memory  all  these  seven  long  years. 

He  was  thus  pondering  on,  with  quick  impatient  step, 
when  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  one  at  a  distance  whose 
appearance  roused  him.  The  figure  disappeared  down  the 
Canongate,  which  Cosmo  was  crossing,  and  the  young  man 
hastened  to  follow,  though  this  famous  old  street  is  by  no 
means  a  savory  promenade  on  a  hot  summer  afternoon. 
He  pushed  down,  notwithstanding,  along  the  dusty  burning 


THE    LAIIID     OF     NOEL  AW.  361 

pavement,  amid  evil  smells  and  evil  sounds,  and  passengers 
not  the  most  agreeable.  Women  on  the  outside  stairs,  with 
dirty  babies  in  their  arms,  loud  in  gossip,  and  unlovely  in 
apparel — ragged  groups  at  the  high  windows,  where  noble 
ladies  once  looked  out  upon  the  noble  highway,  but  where 
now  some  poor  housemother's  washing,  thrust  out  upon  a 
stick,  dallied  with  the  smoky  air,  and  was  dried  and  soiled 
at  the  same  moment — hopeless,  ill-favored  lads  and  girls, 
the  saddest  feature  of  all,  throwing  coarse  jokes  at  each 
other,  and,  indeed,  all  the  usual  symptoms  of  the  most  de 
graded  class  of  town  population,  which  is  much  alike  every 
where.  Cosmo  threaded  his  way  among  them  with  disgust, 
remembering  how  he  had  once  done  so  before  with  Cam 
eron,  whom  he  was  now  pursuing,  and  at  a  time  when  his 
own  anticipations,  as  well  as  his  friend's,  pointed  to  the  sa 
cred  profession  in  which  the  Highlandman  now  toiled.  That 
day,  and  that  conversation,  rose  vividly  before  Cosmo.  It 
sickened  his  sensitive  heart  to  realize  the  work  in  which 
Cameron  was  employed ;  but  when  his  mind  returned  to 
himself,  who  had  no  profession,  and  to  whose  eyes  no  steady 
aim  or  purpose  presented  itself  anywhere,  Cosmo  felt  no 
pleasure  in  the  contrast.  This  was  not  the  sphere  in  which 
a  romantic  imagination  could  follow  the  footsteps  of  the 
evangelist.  Yet,  what  an  overpowing  diiference  between 
those  steps  and  the  wanderings  of  this  disturbed  trifler  with 
his  own  fortune  and  youth. 

But  Cameron  still  did  not  reappear.  Somewhat  reluct 
antly  Cosmo  entered  after  him  at  the  narrow  door,  with 
some  forgotten  noble's  sculptured  shield  upon  its  keystone, 
and  went  up  the  stair  where  his  friend  had  gone.  It  was  a 
winding  stair,  dark,  close,  and  dirty,  but  lighted  in  the  mid 
dle  of  each  flight  by  a  rounded  window,  through  which — 
an  extraordinary  contrast — the  blue  sky,  the  June  sunshine, 
and  a  far-off  glimpse  of  hills  and  sea,  glanced  in  upon  the 
passenger  with  a  splendor  only  heightened  by  the  dark  and 
narrow  frame  through  which  the  picture  shone.  Cosmo 
paused  by  one  of  these  windows  with  an  involuntary  fas 
cination.  Just  above  him,  on  the  dusky  landing,  were  two 
doors  of  rooms,  tenanted  each  by  poverty  and  labor, 
and  many  children,  miserable  versions  of  home,  in  which 
the  imagination  could  take  no  pleasure.  In  his  fastidious 
distaste  for  the  painful  and  unlovely  realities,  the  young  man 

16 


362  THE    LAIRD     OF    NOKLAW. 

paused  by  the  window  ; — all  the  wealth  of  nature  glowing 
in  that  golden  sunshine — how  strange  that  it  should  make 
its  willing  entrance  here  ! 

He  was  arrested  by  a  voice  he  knew — subdued,  but  not 
soft  by  nature,  and  sounding  audibly  enough  down  the  stairs. 

"  I  don't  know  if  he  can  do  them  harm — very  likely  no' — 
I  only  tell  you  I  heard  somebody  speak  of  him,  and  that  he 
was  going  to  Melmar.  Perhaps  you  don't  care  about  the 
family  at  Melmar  ?  I  am  sure,  neither  do  I ;  but,  if  you 
like,  you  can  tell  Cosmo  Livingstone.  It's  nothing  to  me !" 

"  I'll  tell  him,"  said  Cameron.  "  Who  was  the  man  ?  Do 
you  know  ?" 

"  He  was  French  ;  and  I'm  sure  a  vagabond — I  am  sure 
a  vagabond !"  cried  the  other.  "  I  don't  know  if  you  can 
mind  me,  but  Cosmo  will — I'm  Joanna  Huntley.  I  care  for 
none  of  them  but  Desiree.  Her  mother  and  her  sister  may 
take  care  of  themselves.  But  we  were  great  friends,  and  I 
like  her  ;  though  I  need  not  like  her  unless  I  please,"  added 
Joanna,  angrily  ;  "  it's  no'  for  her  sake,  but  because  I  canna 
help  it.  There — -just  tell  Cosmo  Livingstone  !  Perhaps  it's 
nothing,  but  he  might  as  well  know." 

"  I'll  tell  him,"  said  Cameron,  once  more. 

Then  there  came  a  sound  of  a  step  upon  the  stair — not  a 
light  step,  but  a  prompt  and  active  one — and  Joanna  herself, 
grown  very  tall,  tolerably  trim,  rather  shabby,  and  with 
hair  of  undiminished  redness,  came  rapidly  down  the  narrow 
side  of  the  spiral  stair,  with  her  hand  upon  its  rib  of  stone. 
She  started  and  stopped  when  she  had  reached  almost  as  far 
as  Cosmo's  window — made  as  though  she  would  pass  him 
for  the  first  moment,  but  finally  drew  up  with  considerable 
hauteur,  a  step  or  two  above  him.  Joanna  could  not  help  a 
little  oflense  at  her  father's  conqueror,  though  she  applauded 
him  in  her  heart. 

"  I've  been  in  London,"  said  Joanna,  abruptly,  entering 
upon  her  statement  without  any  preface.  "I  saw  a  man 
there  who  was  inquiring  about  Melmar — at  least  about  the 
eldest  daughter,  for  he  did  not  know  the  house — and  Oswald 
directed  him  every  step  of  the  way.  I'll  no'  say  he  was 
right  and  I'll  no'  say  he  was  wrong,  but  I  tell  you  •  the 
man  was  a  rascal,  that's  all  I  know  about  him — and  you 
can  do  what  you  like  now." 

"  But  stop,  Miss  Huntley ;  did  you  seek  Cameron  out  to 
tell  him  ?"  said  Cosmo,  with  gratitude  and  kindness. 


THE    LAIKD     OF    NOEL  AW.  363 

"  I  am  Miss  Huntley  now,"  said  Joanna,  with  an  odd 
smile.  "Patricia's  married  to  an  officer,  and  away,  and 
Oswald's  in  London.  My  brother  has  great  friends  there. 
Did  I  seek  Mr.  Cameron  out  ?  No.  I  was  here  on  my  own 
business,  and  met  him.  I  might  have  sought  you  out,  but 
not  him,  that  scarcely  knows  them.  But  it  was  not  worth 
while  seeking  you  out  either,"  added  Joanna,  with  a  slight 
toss  of  her  head.  "  Very  likely  the  man  is  a  friend  of  theirs 
— they  were  but  small  people,  I  suppose,  before  they  came 
to  Melmar.  Very  likely  they'll  be  glad  to  see  him.  But 
Oswald  was  so  particular  telling  him  where  they  were,  and 
the  man  had  such  an  ill  look,"  added  Joanna,  slowly,  after 
a  pause,  "  that  I  can  not  think  but  that  he  wanted  to  do 
them  an  ill  turn." 

"  Thank  you  for  warning  them.  He  had  come  yesterday, 
and  I  fear  he  will  do  Marie  a  very  ill  turn,"  said  Cosmo  ; 
"  but  nobody  has  any  right  to  interfere — he  is  a — a  relation. 
But  may  I  tell  Desiree — I  mean  Miss  Roche — any  thing  of 
yourself?  I  know  she  often  speaks,  and  still  oftener  thinks, 
of  you." 

"  She  has  nothing  to  do  with  us  that  I  know  of,"  said 
Joanna,  sharply  ;  "  good  day  to  you ;  that  was  all  I  had  to 
say,"  and  she  rushed  past  him,  passing  perilously  down  the 
narrow  edge  of  the  stair.  But  when  she  had  descended  a 
few  steps,  Joanna's  honest  heart  smote  her.  She  turned 
back,  looking  up  to  him  with  eyes  which  looked  so  straight 
forward  and  sincere,  in  spite  of  their  irascible  sparkle,  that 
Joanna's  plain  face  became  almost  pretty  under  their  light. 
"  I  am  sure  I  need  not  quarrel  with  you,"  she  said  with  a  little 
burst  of  her  natural  frankness,  "  nor  with  Desiree  either.  It 
was  not  her  fault — but  I  was  very  fond  of  Desiree.  Tell  her 
I  teach  in  a  school  now,  and  am  very  happy — they  even  say 
I'm  clever,"  continued  the  girl,  with  a  laugh,  "  which  I 
never  was  at  Melmar ;  and  mamma  is  stronger,  and  we're 
all  as  well  as  we  can  be.  You  need  not  laugh,  Cosmo  Living 
stone,  it's  true !"  cried  Joanna,  with  sudden  vehemence, 
growing  offended  once  more ;  "  papa  may  have  done  wrong 
whiles,  but  he's  very  good  to  us ;  and  no  one  shall  dare 
throw  a  stone  at  him  while  I'm  living.  You  can  tell  De 
siree." 

"  I  will  tell  Desiree  you  were  very  fond  of  her — she  will 
like  that  best,"  said  Cosmo. 


364  THE    LAIRD     OF     NO11LAW. 

Whereupon  the  vail,  which  had  been  hanging  about  her 
bonnet,  suddenly  dropped  over  Joanna's  face ;  it  is  to  be 
supposed  from  the  suppressed  and  momentary  sound  that 
followed,  that,  partly  in  anger,  partly  in  sorrow,  partly  in 
old  friendship  and  tenderness,  she  broke  down  for  the  in 
stant,  and  cried — but  all  that  could  clearly  be  known  was, 
that  she  put  out  her  hand  most  unexpectedly,  shook  Cosmo's 
hand,  and  immediately  started  down  the  stair  with  great 
haste  and  agitation.  Cosmo  could  not  try  to  detain  or  fol 
low  her;  he  knew  very  well  that  no  such  proceeding  would 
have  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Joanna ;  and  Cameron  at 
that  moment  came  in  sight  from  the  upper  floor. 

Cosmo  never  could  tell  by  what  sudden  impulse  it  was 
that  he  begged  his  old  friend  to  return  with  him  to  his  lodg 
ings  and  dine ;  he  had  no  previous  intention  of  doing  so— 
but  the  idea  seized  him  so  strongly,  that  he  urged,  and 
almost  forced  the  half  reluctant  Highlandman  into  compli 
ance.  Perhaps  the  listless  loveliness  of  the  day  affected 
Cameron,  in  a  less  degree,  somewhat  as  it  affected  his  more 
imaginative  companion — for,  at  length,  after  consulting  his 
note-book,  he  put  his  strong  arm  within  Cosmo's,  and  went 
with  him.  Cameron,  like  everybody  else,  had  changed  in 
these  five  years.  He  was  now  what  is  called  a  licentiate  in 
the  Church  of  Scotland — authorized  to  preach,  but  not  to 
administer  the  sacraments,  an  office  corresponding  somewhat 
with  the  deacon's  orders  of  the  English  Church.  And  like 
other  people,  too,  Cameron  had  not  got  his  ideal  fortune. 
The  poor  student  had  no  patronage,  and  the  Gaelic-speaking 
parish  among  his  own  hills,  to  which  his  fancy  had  once 
aspired,  was  still  as  distant  as  ever  from  the  humble  evan 
gelist.  Perhaps  Cameron  did  not  even  wish  it  now — per 
haps  he  had  never  forgotten  that  hard  lesson  which  he 
learned  in  St.  Ouen — perhaps  had  never  so  entirely  re 
covered  that  throwing  away  of  his  heart,  as  to  be  able  to 
content  himself  among  the  solitudes  of  the  hills.  But,  at 
least,  he  had  not  reached  to  this  desired  end — and  was  now 
working  hard  among  the  wynds  and  closes  of  old  Edinburgh, 
preaching  in  a  public  room  in  that  sad  quarter,  and  doing 
all  that  Christian  man  could  do  to  awaken  its  inhabitants  to 
a  better  life. 

"  It  is  good,  right,  best !  I  confess  it !"  cried  Cosmo,  in 
a  sudden  acces  of  natural  feeling,  "  but  how  can  you  do  it, 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOELAW.  365 

Cameron  ? — how  is  it  possible  to  visit,  to  interest,  to  woo, 
such  miserable  groups  as  these  ?  Look  at  them !"  exclaimed 
the  young  man.  "Mean,  coarse,  brutal,  degraded,  luxu 
riating  in  their  own  wretchedness,  knowing  nothing  better 
— unable  to  comprehend  a  single  refined  idea,  a  single  great 
thought.  Love  your  neighbor — love  them  ? — is  it  in  the 
power  of  man  ?" 

Cameron  looked  round  upon  them,  too,  though  with  a 
different  glance. 

"  Cosmo,"  said  the  Highlandman,  with  that  deep  voice  ol 
his,  to  which  additional  years  and  personal  experience  had 
given  a  sweeter  tone  than  of  old,  "  do  you  forget  that  you 
once  before  asked  me  that  same  question  ?  Love  is  ill  to 
bind,  and  hard  to  draw.  I  love  few  in  this  world,  and  will 
to  the  end  ;  but  first. among  them  is  One  whose  love  kens  no 
caprice  like  to  ours.  I  tell  you  again,  laddie,  what  I  tell 
them  forever.  Can  I  comprehend  it? — it's  just  the  mys 
tery  of  mysteries — He  loves  them  all.  I  have  room  in  my 
goodwill,  if  not  in  my  heart,  for  them  that  you  love,  Cosmo  ; 
and  what  should  I  have  for  them  that  He  loved,  and  loved 
to  the  death  ?  That  is  the  secret.  My  boy,  I  would  rather 
than  gear  and  lands  that  you  found  it  out  for  yourself." 

"  I  can  understand  it,  at  least,"  said  Cosmo,  grasping  his 
friend's  hand  ;  "  but  I  blush  for  myself  when  I  look  at  your 
work  and  at  mine.  They  are  different,  Cameron." 

"  A  lad  may  leave  the  plow  in  mid-furrow  for  a  flower 
on  the  brae  or  a  fish  in  the  water,"  said  Cameron,  with  a 
smile  ;  "  but  a  man  returns  to.  the  work  he's  put  his  hand 
to.  Come  back,  my  boy,  to  your  first  beginning — there's 
time." 

And  Cosmo  was  almost  persuaded,  as  they  went  on  dis 
cussing  and  remonstrating  to  the  young  man's  lodging, 
where  other  thoughts  and  other  purposes  were  waiting  for 
them  both. 


366  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW. 


CHAPTEK    LXXII. 

FOR  on  Cosmo's  table  lay  a  letter,  newly  arrived,  and 
marked  immediate.  Cosmo  felt  himself  forewarned  by  the 
sudden  tremor  which  moved  him,  as  he  sprang  forward  to 
take  it  up,  that  it  was  from  Madame  Roche.  Perhaps  some 
strange  instinct  suggested  the  same  to  Cameron,  for  he 
withdrew  immediately  from  his  friend's  side,  and  went  away 
to  Cosmo's  book-shelf  in  the  corner  without  a  word.  Then, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  time,  any  unconcerned  spectator  look 
ing  on  might  have  perceived  that  Cameron  looked  weary, 
and  that,  besides  the  dust  upon  his  boots  and  black  coat, 
the  lines  in  his  face  were  deeper  drawn  than  his  years  and 
strength  warranted,  and  told  of  a  forlorn  fatigue  somewhere 
which  no  one  tried  to  comfort.  But  he  did  not  say  any 
thing — he  only  stood  quietly  before  the  book-shelf,  looking 
over  Cosmo's  books. 

Cosmo,  on  the  contrary,  his  face  flushed  with  excitement 
and  expectation,  and  his  heart  beating  high,  opened  the  let 
ter.  As  he  ran  over  it,  in  his  haste  and  anxiety,  the  flush 
faded  from  his  face.  Then  he  read  it  seriously  a  second  time 
— then  he  looked  at  his  friend. 

"  Cameron  !"  said  Cosmo. 

But  it  seemed  that  Cameron  did  not  hear  him  till  he  was 
called  a  second  time,  when  he  looked  round  slowly ;  and, 
seeing  Cosmo  holding  towards  him  the  letter  -which  he  had 
just  read  so  eagerly,  looked  at  it  with  a  strange  confusion, 
anxiety,  and  embarrassment,  half-lifting  his  hand  to  take  it, 
and  saying  "  Eh  ?"  with  a  surprised  and  reluctant  inquiry. 

"  It  concerns  you  as  well  as  me.  Look  at  it,  Cameron," 
said  the  young  man. 

It  was  from  Madame  Roche ;  and  this  is  what  Cameron 
read : — 

"  Cosmo — my  son,  my  friend  !  come  back  and  help  us  ! 
Pierrot — he  of  whom  you  warned  us — has  come ;  and  I,  in 
my  folly — in  my  madness,  could  not  deny  to  Marie  to  see 
him.  You  will  ask  me  why  ?  Alas  !  he  is  her  husband,  and 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  367 

she  loves  him !  I  thought,  in  my  blindness,  it  might  make 
her  well;  but  we  have  known  her  illness  so  long,  we  have 
forgotten  how  great  it  is ;  and  the  shock  has  killed  her — ah, 
me !  unhappy  mother  ! — has  stricken  my  child !  She  was 
very  joyful,  the  poor  soul ! — she  was  too  happy  ! — and  he 
who  is  so  little  deserving  of  it !  But  it  has  been  more  than 
she  could  bear,  and  she  is  dying !  Come  ! — sustain  us,  com 
fort  us,  Cosmo,  my  friend !  We  are  but  women  alone,  and 
we  have  no  one  who  will  be  so  tender  to  us  as  you !  It 
was  but  Monday  when  he  came,  and  already  she  is  dying ! 

"  I  have  another  thing  to  say.  My  poor  Marie  spoke  to 
me  this  morning.  I  could  not  tell  my  child  how  ill,  how 
very  ill  she  was — I,  her  mother  !  but  she  has  learned  from 
our  sad  looks,  or,  perhaps,  alas,  from  the  wretch,  Pierrot, 
that  she  is  in  danger.  She  spoke  to  me  this  morning.  She  • 
said,  '  Mamma,  will  no  one  speak  to  me  of  heaven  ?  Alas, 
I  know  not  heaven.  How  shall  I  know  the  way  ?  Send 
for  the  Englishman — the  Scottishman — the  traveler  who 
came  with  Cosmo  to  our  old  house.  I  remember  how  he  , 
spoke — he  spoke  of  God  as  one  might  who  loved  Him.  ; 
None  but  he  ever  spoke  so  to  me.  Send  mother — if  he 
loves  God  he  will  come.'  Alas,  my  friend  !  could  I  say  to 
her  on  her  sick  bed,  '  My  child,  this  good  Monsieur  Cam 
eron  loved  you  I  can  not  break  his  heart  over  again,  and  ask 
him  to  come.'  No  !  I  could  not  say  it.  I  can  but  write  to 
you,  Cosmo.  Speak  to  this  good  Cameron — this  man  who 
loves  God.  Ah,  my  friend,  can  you  not  think  how  I  feel 
now  that  I  am  ignorant,  that  I  am  a  sinner — that  I,  who  am 
her  mother,  have  never  taught  my  Marie  ?  Tell  it  to  your 
friend — tell  him  what  she  has  said — she  knows  not,  my  poor 
child,  what  thoughts  might  once  have  been  in  his  heart. 
Let  him  come,  for  the  love  of  God." 

Cosmo  scarcely  ventured  to  look  at  his  friend  while  he 
read  this  letter ;  and  as  for  Cameron  himself,  he  raised  it  in 
his  hands  so  as  to  shade  his  face,  and  held  it  so  with  strong     . 
yet  trembling  fingers,  that  nobody  might  see  the  storm  of    J 
passionate  emotions  there.     Never  before  in  his  life,  save 
once,  had  the  vehement  and  fiery  nature  of  the  Highland- 
man  been  subject  to  so  violent  a  trial,  and  even  that  once 
was  not  like  this.     A  great  sob  rose  in  his  throat— his  whole 
passionate  heart,  Avhich  had  been  strained  then  in  desperate 


068  TUE    LAIKD     OP    NOKLAW. 

self-preservation,  melted  now  in  a  flood  of  sudden  grief  and 
tenderness,  ineffable  and  beyond  description.  Marie,  upon 
whom  he  had  wasted  his  heart  and  love — Marie,  whose 
weakness  had  filled  him  with  a  man's  impulse  of  protection, 
sustenance,  and  comfort — Marie  !  Now  at  last  should  it  be 
his,  in  solemnwise,  to  carry  out  that  love-dream — to  bring 
her  in  his  arms  to  the  feet  of  the  Lord  whom  he  loved — to 
show  the  fainting  spirit  where  to  find  those  wings  of  a  dove, 
by  which  she  might  fly  away  and  be  at  rest.  Great  over 
brimming  tears,  big  as  an  ocean  of  lighter  drops,  made  his 
eyes  blind,  but  did  not  fall.  He  sat  gazing  at  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  letter  long  after  he  had  read  it,  not  reading  it 
over  again  like  Cosmo — once  had  been  enough  to  fix  the 
words  beyond  possibility  of  forgetting  upon  Cameron's 
heart — but  only  looking  at  it  with  his  full  eyes,  seeing  the 
name,  "  Mary  Roche  de  St.  Martin,"  glimmering  and  trem 
bling  on  the  page,  now  partially  visible,  now  altogether  lost. 
When  Cosmo  ventured  at  last  to  glance  at  his  friend,  he 
was  still  sitting  in  the  same  position,  leaning  both  his  elbows 
upon  the  table,  and  holding  up  the  letter  in  his  hands  to 
screen  his  face.  Cosmo  was  aware  of  something  strangely 
touching  in  the  forced,  strained,  spasmodic  attitude,  but  he 
could  not  see  the  big  silent  sob  that  heaved  in  his  friend's 
strong  heart,  nor  the  tears  that  almost  brimmed  over  but 
did  not  fall  out  of  Cameron's  eyes. 

Presently  the  Highlandman  folded  up  the  letter  with  cart 
and  elaboration,  seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment  whether  ho 
would  keep  it,  and  finally  gave  it  over  with  some  abrupt 
ness  to  Cosmo.  "  Relics  are  not  for  me,"  he  said,  hastily. 
"  Now,  when  you  are  ready,  let  us  go." 

"  Go  ? — to  Melmar  !"  said  Cosmo,  faltering  a  little. 

"  Where  else  ?"  asked  Cameron,  sternly — "  is  that  a  sum 
mons  to  say  no  to  ?  I  am  going  without  delay.  We  can 
get  there  to-night." 

"  The  coach  will  not  leave  for  an  hour — take  some  refresh 
ment  first,"  said  Cosmo ;  "  you  have  been  at  work  all  da} 
— you  will  be  faint  before  we  get  there." 

Cameron  turned  towards  him  with  a  strange  smile  : — 

"  I  will  not  faint  before  we  get  there,"  he  said  slowly, 
and  then  rose  up  and  lifted  his  hat.  "  You  can  meet  me  at 
the  coach,  Cosmo,  in  an  hour — I  shall  be  quite  ready ;  but 
in  the  first  place  I  must  go  home  ;  make  haste,  my  boy  ;  2 
will  go,  whether  you  are  there  or  not." 


THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW.  369 

Cosmo  gazed  after  him  with  something  like  awe ;  it  was 
rather  beyond  romance,  this  strange  errand — and  Cameron, 
in  spite  of  the  fervid  Highland  heart  within  him  did  not 
look  a  very  fit  subject  for  romance  ;  but  somehow  Cosmo 
could  not  think  what  personal  hopes  of  his  own  might  be 
involved  in  this  relenting  of  Madame  Roche — could  not  think 
even  of  Desiree,  whose  name  was  not  once  mentioned  in 
the  letter,  could  think  of  nothing  but  Cameron,  called  of  all 
men  in  the  world  to  that  bedside  to  tell  the  dying  Marie 
where  to  find  her  Lord. 

They  left  Edinburgh  accordingly  within  the  hour.  Came 
ron  had  entirely  recovered  his  usual  composure,  but  scarcely 
spoke  during  the  whole  journey,  in  which  time  Cosmo  had 
leisure  to  return  to  his  own  fortune,  with  all  its  perplexities. 
Even  Marie's  illness  was  not  likely  to  form  reason  enough 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Mistress  for  his  abrupt  and  unexpected 
return,  and  he  could  hardly  himself  see  what  good  his  pres 
ence  could  do  Madame  Roche,  with  dangerous  illness,  per 
haps  death,  and  a  disagreeable  son-in-law  in  her  house. 
Take  him  at  his  worst,  Pierrot,  who  was  Marie's  husband, 
had  a  more  natural  place  there  than  Cosmo,  who  was  only 
Desiree's  lover — a  lover  rejected  by  Madame  Roche  ;  and 
Desiree  herself  had  not  intimated  by  word  or  sign  any  desire 
for  his  presence.  The  whole  aspect  of  things  did  not  con 
duce  to  make  Cosmo  comfortable.  It  seemed  almost  a 
necessity  to  go  to  Melmar,  instantly,  instead  of  going  to 
Nbrlaw  ;  but  what  would  the  Mistress  think  of  so  strange 
a  proceeding  ?  And  Huntley  and  Patie  now,  it  was  to  be 
presumed,  were  both  at  home.  What  a  strange,  disturbing  in 
fluence  had  come  among  the  brothers !  Cosmo  began  to  con 
template  his  own  position  with  a  certain  despair ;  he  knew  well 
enough  by  this  time  the  unreasoning  sentiment  of  Madame 
Roche ;  he  knew  very  well  that  though  she  relieved  herself  in 
her  trouble  by  writing  to  him,  and  made  a  solemn  appeal  for 
his  services,  that  it  by  no  means  followed  when  this  emer 
gency  was  past,  that  she  would  confirm  his  sonship  by  giving 
him  her  daughter,  or  relinquish  her  past  idea  for  the  sake  of 
the  hopes  she  might  have  excited  ;  and  in  the  second  place 
Cosmo  could  not  tell  for  his  life  what  use  he  was  likely  to 
be  to  Madame  Roche,  or  how  he  could  sustain  her  in  her 
trouble — while  the  idea  of  being  so  near  home  without 
going  there,  and  without  the  knowledge  of  his  mother,  ag- 

16* 


370  THE    LAIED    OF    NOELAW. 

gravated  all  his  other  difficulties.  He  went  on,  however, 
with  resignation,  got  down  with  the  calmness  of  despair  and 
bewilderment  at  Kirkbride,  walked  silently  towards  Melmar, 
guiding  Cameron  along  the  silent  leafy  ways,  and  yielding 
himselfj  whatever  that  might  be,  to  his  fate. 


CHAPTER    LXXIII. 

AND  there  stood  the  house  of  Melmar,  resting  among  its 
trees,  in  the  soft  sweet  darkness  of  the  June  night. 

Perhaps  Cameron's  heart  failed  him  as  he  came  so  near — 
at  least  Cosmo  reached  the  house  first.  The  foliage  was  so 
thick  around  that  the  darkness  seemed  double  in  this  circle 
round  the  house.  You  could  only  see  the  colorless,  dark 
woods,  stretching  back  into  the  night,  and  the  gleam  of  blue 
sky  over  head,  and  the  lighted  windows  in  the  house  itself 
—lights  which  suggested  no  happy  household  meeting,  but 
were  astray  among  different  windows  in  the  upper  story, 
telling  their  own  silent  tale  of  illness  and  anxiety.  Cosmo, 
standing  before  the  door  which  he  knew  so  well,  could  only 
tell  that  Tyne  was  near  by  the  low,  sweet  tinkle  of  the  water 
among  the  sighing  leaves,  and  was  aware  of  all  the  summer 
flush  of  roses  covering  that  side  of  the  house  by  nothing 
save  the  fragrance.  He  stood  there  gazing  up  for  a  moment 
at  one  light  which  moved  about  from  window  to  window 
with  a  strange  restlessness,  and  at  another  which  burned 
steadily  in  Marie's  bed-chamber.  He  knew  it  to  be  Ma 
rie's  chamber  by  instinct.  A  watch-light,  a  death-light, 
a  low,  motionless  flame,  so  sadly  different  from  the  wavering 
and  brightening  of  that  other,  which  some  anxious  watcher 
carried  about.  Cosmo's  heart  grew  sad  within  him  as 
he  thought  of  this  great  solemn  death  which  was  coming 
on  Marie.  Poor  Marie,  with  her  invalid  irritability,  her 
little  feverish  weakness,  her  ill-bestowed  love !  To  think 
that  one  so  tender  and  wayward,  from  whom  even  reason 
and  sober  thought  were  not  to  be  expected,  should,  not 
withstanding,  go  forth  alone  like  every  other  soul  to  stand 
by  herself  before  her  God,  and  that  love  and  pity  could  no 
longer  help  her,  let  them  strain  and  struggle  as  they 


THE    LAIED     OF    NORLAW.  371 

would !     The  thought  made  Cosmo's  heart  ache,  he  could 
not  tell  why. 

Madame  Roche  met  them  at  the  door.  She  was  not  vio 
lently  affected  as  Cosmo  feared — she  only  kept  wiping  from 
her  eyes  the  tears  which  perpetually  returned  to  till  them, 
as  he  had  seen  his  own  mother  do  in  her  trouble — and  per 
haps  it  is  the  common  weeping  of  age  which  has  no  longer 
hasty  floods  of  youthful  tears  to  spend  upon  any  thing.  She 
gave  a  cry  of  joy  when  she  saw  Cameron. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  kind — God  will  reward  you !"  said 
Madame  Roche,  "  and  you  must  come  to  her — there  is  little 
time — my  child  is  dying." 

Cameron  did  not  answer  a  word — he  only  threw  down  his 
hat  and  followed  her,  restraining  his  step  with  a  painful  start 
when  he  heard  it  ring  against  the  pavement.  Cosmo  fol 
lowed,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  to  the  door  of  the  sick 
room.  He  did  not  enter,  but  as  the  door  opened  he  saw 
who  and  what  was  there.  And  strange  to  her  son  sounded 
the  voice  which  came  out  of  that  sad  apartment — the  voice 
of  the  Mistress  reading  with  her  strong  Scottish  accent  and 
old  fashioned  intonation,  so  different  from  the  silvery  lady's 
voice  of  Madame  Roche,  and  the  sweet  tones  of  Desiree. 
Spread  out  before  her  was  the  big  Bible,  the  family  book  of 
old  Huntley  of  Melmar,  and  she  was  seated  close  by  the 
bedside  of  the  sufferer,  who  lay  pallid  and  wasted,  with  her 
thin  hands  crossed  upon  the  coverlet,  and  her  whole  soul 
in  an  agony  of  listening  not  to  be  described.  Close  by  the 
Mistress,  Desiree  was  kneeling  watching  her  sister.  This 
scene,  which  he  saw  only  in  a  momentary  glance  before  the 
door  was  closed,  overpowered  Cosmo.  He  threw  himself 
down  upon  a  window-seat  in  the  long  corridor  which  led  to 
this  room,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The  sudden 
and  unexpected  appearance  of  his  mother  brought  the  young 
man's  excitement  to  a  climax.  How  unjust,  unkind,  ungen 
erous  now  seemed  his  own  fears  ! 

Madame  Roche  was  one  of  those  women  who  fear  to  meet 
any  great  emergency  alone.  In  the  first  shock  of  dismay 
with  which  she  heard  that  Marie's  life  was  fast  hastening  to 
its  end,  she  wrote  to  Cosmo ;  and  before  it  was  time  for 
Cosmo  to  arrive — while  indeed  it  was  impossible  that  he 
could  even  have  received  her  letter — the  poor  mother,  with 
an  instinct  of  her  dependent  nature,  which  she  was  not  aware 


372  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

of  and  could  not  subdue,  hastened  to  send  for  the  Mistress 
to  help  her  to  bear  that  intolerable  agony  in  which  flesh  and 
heart  faint  and  fail — the  anguish  of  beholding  the  dying  of 
her  child.  The  Mistress,  who  under  similar  circumstances 
would  have  closed  her  doors  against  all  the  world,  came, 
gravely  and  soberly  to  the  call  of  this  undeniable  sorrow. 
In  face  of  that  all  the  bitterness  died  out  of  her  honest 
heart.  Madame  Roche  had  already  lost  many  children. 
"  And  I  have  all  mine — God  forgive  me — I  ken  nothing  of 
that  grief,"  cried  Mrs.  Livingstone,  with  a  sob  of  mingled 
thankfulness  and  terror.  It  was  not  her  vocation  to  minis 
ter  at  sick-beds,  or  support  the  weak  ;  yet  she  went  without 
hesitation,  though  leaving  Huntley  to  do  both.  And  even 
before  Madame  Roche  sent  for  her,  Desiree,  who  understood 
her  character,  had  run  over  by  herself  early  in  the  morning, 
when,  after  watching  all  night,  she  was  supposed  asleep,  to 
tell  the  Mistress  that  her  mother  had  written  to  Cosmo.  So 
there  was  neither  cause  nor  intention  of  offense  between  the 
sad  family  at  Melmar  and  that  of  Norlaw.  When  she  came 
to  Marie's  sick-bed,  the  Mistress  found  that  poor  sufferer 
pathetically  imploring  some  one  to  tell  her  of  the  unknown 
world  to  which  she  was  fast  approaching — while  Madame 
Roche,  passionately  reproaching  herself  for  leaving  her 
daughter  uninstructed,  mingled  with  her  self-accusations, 
vague  words  about  heaven  and  descriptions  of  its  blessed 
ness  which  fell  dull  upon  the  longing  ears  of  the  anxious  in 
valid.  The  harps  and  the  white  robes,  the  gates  of  pearl 
and  the  streets  of  gold  were  nothing  to  Marie — wThat  are 
they  to  any  one  who  does  not  see  there  the  only  presence 
which  makes  heaven  a  reality  ?  The  Mistress  had  no  words 
to  add  to  the  poor  mother's  anxious  eager  repetition  of  all 
the  disjointed  words,  describing  heaven,  wrhich  abode  in  her 
memory — but  instead,  went  softly  down  stairs  and  returned 
with  the  big  Bible,  the  old,  well  remembered  book,  which 
never  failed  to  produce  a  certain  awe  in  Madame  Roche — 
and  this  was  how  it  happened  that  Cosmo  found  his  mother 
reading  to  Marie. 

When  Cameron  entered  the  room,  the  Mistress,  who  had 
not  paused,  continued  steadily  with  the  reading  of  her  gos 
pel.  He,  for  his  part,  did  not  interrupt  her — he  went  to  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  and  sat  down  there,  looking  at  the 
white  face  which  he  had  never  seen  since  he  saw  it  in  St. 


THE    LAIRD    OP    NOELAW.  373 

Ouen,  scarcely  less  pale,  yet  bright  enough  to  appear  to  his 
deluded  fancy  a  star  which  might  light  his  life.  That  was 
not  an  hour  or  place  to  think  of  those  vain  human  dreams. 
Sure  as  the  evening  was  sinking  into  midnight,  this  troubled 
shadow  of  existence  was  gliding  on  toward  the  unspeakable 
perfection  of  the  other  life.  A  little  while,  and  words  would 
no  more  vail  the  face  of  things  to  this  uninstructed  soul — 
a  little  while — but  as  he  sat  by  Marie's  death-bed  the  whole 
scene  swam  and  glimmered  before  Cameron's  eyes — "  A  little 
while  and  ye  shall  not  see  me — and  again  a  little  while  and 
ye  shall  see  me."  Oh  these  ineffable,  pathetic,  heart  break 
ing  words !  They  wandered  out  and  in  through  Cameron's 
mind  in  an  agony  of  consolation  and  of  tears.  He  heard 
the  impatient  anxious  mother  stop  the  reading — he  felt  her 
finger  tap  upon  his  arm  urging  him  to  speak — he  saw  Marie 
turn  her  tender,  dying  eyes  toward  him — he  tried  to  say 
something  but  his  voice  failed  him — and  when  at  last  he 
found  utterance,  with  a  tearless  sob,  which  it  was  impossible 
to  restrain,  the  words  which  burst  from  his  lips  with  a  ve 
hement  outcry,  which  sounded  loud  though  it  was  nearer  a 
whisper,  were  only  these  : — "  Jesus  !  Jesus  !  our  Lord  !" 

Only  these!— only  that  everlasting  open  secret  of  God's 
grace  by  which  He  brings  heaven  and  earth  together  !  The 
gentle,  blue  eyes,  which  were  no  longer  peevish,  brightened 
with  a  wistful  hope.  There  was  comfort  in  the  very  name  ; 
and  then  this  man — who  labored  for  the  wretched — whom 
himself  could  not  force  his  human  heart  to  love,  because  his 
Master  loved  them — this  man,  whom  poor  Marie  never  sus 
pected  to  have  loved  her  in  her  selfish  weakness  with  the 
lavish  love  of  a  prodigal,  who  throws  away  all — this  man 
stood  up  by  the  bedside  with  his  gospel.  He  himself  did 
not  know  what  he  said — perhaps  neither  did  she,  who  was 
too  far  upon  her  way  to  think  of  words — but  the  others 
stood  round  with  awe  to  hear.  Heaven  ?  ISTo,  it  was  not 
heaven  he  was  speaking  of — there  was  no  time  for  those  ce 
lestial  glories,  which  are  but  a  secondary  blessing ;  and 
Cameron  had  not  a  thought  in  his  heart  save  for  this  dying 
creature  and  his  Lord. 

Was  it  darker  out  of  doors  under  the  skies  ?  No  ;  there 
was  a  soft  young  moon  silvering  over  the  dark  outline  of 
the  trees,  and  throwing  down  a  pale  glory  over  this  house 
of  Melmar,  on  the  roof,  which  glimmered  like  a  silver  shield  ; 


374  THE    LAIRD    OP    NOEL  AW. 

and,  in  the  hush,  the  tinkling  voice  of  Tyne  and  the  breath 
of  the  roses,  and  a  sweet  white  arrow  of  moonlight,  came 
in.  all  mingled  and  together,  into  the  chamber  of  death. 
Yet,  somehow,  it  is  darker — darker.  This  pale  figure,  which 
is  still  Marie,  feels  it  so,  but  does  not  wonder — does  not 
ask — is,  indeed,  sinking  into  so  deep  a  quiet,  that  it  does  not 
trouble  her  with  any  fears. 

"  I  go  to  sleep,"  she  says  faintly,  with  the  sweetest  smile 
that  ever  shone  upon  Marie's  lips,  "  I  am  so  well.  Do  not 
cry,  mamma ;  when  I  wake,  I  shall  be  better.  I  go  to 
sleep." 

And  so  she  would,  and  thus  have  reached  heaven  una 
wares,  but  for  the  careless  foot  which  pushed  the  door  open, 
and  the  excited  figure  which  came  recklessly  in.  At  sight 
of  him,  Cameron  instantly  left  the  bedside — instantly  with 
out  a  word,  quitted  the  room — and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  corridor,  where  Cosmo  stood  waiting.  Pierrot 
began  immediately  to  address  his  wife  : — His  wife  ! — his  life ! 
— his  angel !  was  it  by  her  orders  that  strangers  came  to 
the  house,  that  his  commands  were  disobeyed,  that  he  him 
self  was  kept  from  her  side  ?  He  begged  his  adored  one  to 
shake  off  her  illness,  to  have  a  brave  spirit,  to  get  up  and 
rouse  herself  for  his  sake. 

"  What,  my  Marie !  it  is  but  courage  !"  cried  her  hus 
band.  "A  man  does  not  die  who  will  not  die  !  Up,  my 
child  !  Courage !  I  will  forsake  you  no  more — you  have 
your  adored  husband — you  will  live  for  him.  We  shall  be 
happy  as  the  day.  Your  hand,  my  angel !  Have  courage, 
and  rise  up,  and  live  for  your  Emile's  sake  !" 

And  all  the  peace  that  had  been  upon  it  fled  from  Marie's 
face.  The  troubled  eagerness  of  her  life  came  back  to  her. 
"  Yes  Emile !"  she  whispered,  with  breathless  lips,  and 
made  the  last  dying  effort  to  rise  up  at  his  bidding  and  fol 
low  him.  Madame  Roche  threw  herself  between,  with 
cries  of  real  and  terrified  agony ;  and  the  Mistress,  almost 
glad  to  exchange  her  choking  sympathy  for  the  violent,  sud 
den  passion  which  now  came  upon  her,  went  round  the  bed 
with  the  silence  and  speed  of  a  ghost,  seized  his  arm  with  a 
grip  of  imperative  fury  not  to  be  resisted,  and,  before  he 
was  aware,  had  thrust  him  before  her  to  the  door.  When 
she  had  drawn  it  close  behind  her,  she  shook  him  like  a  child 
with  both  her  hands.  "  You  devil !"  cried  the  Mistress, 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  375 

transported  out  of  all  decorum  of  speech  by  a  passion  of 
indignation  which  the  scene  almost  warranted.  "  You  dirty, 
miserable  hound  !  how  daur  you  come  there  ?  If  you  do 
not  begone  to  your  own  place  this  instant — Cosmo,  here ! 
She's  gone,  the  poor  bairn.  He  has  nae  mair  right  in  this 
house,  if  he  ever  had  ony — take  him  away." 

But  while  this  violent  scene  disturbed  the  death  calm  of 
the  house,  it  did  not  disturb  Marie.  She  had  seen  for  her 
self  by  that  time,  better  than  any  one  could  have  told  her, 
what  robes  they  wore  and  what  harps  they  played  in  the 
other  world. 


CHAPTEE    LXXIY. 

THAT  same  night,  while  they  watched  their  dead  at  Mel- 
mar,  the  young  moon  shone  kindly  into  the  open  parlor 
window  of  a  pretty  cottage,  where  some  anxiety,  but  no 
sorrow  was.  This  little  house  stood  upon  a  high  bank  of 
the  river  Esk,  just  after  that  pretty  stream  had  passed 
through  the  pretty  village  of  Lasswade.  The  front  of  the  house 
was  on  the  summit  of  the  height,  and  only  one  story  high, 
while  the  rapid  slope  behind  procured  for  it  the  advantage 
of  two  stories  at  the  back.  It  was  a  perfectly  simple  little 
cottage,  rich  in  flowers,  but  nothing  else,  furnished  with  old, 
well-preserved  furniture,  as  dainty,  as  bright,  and  as  com 
fortable  as  you  could  imagine,  and  looking  all  the  better  for 
having  already  answered  the  wants  of  two  or  three  genera 
tions.  The  window  was  open,  and  here,  too,  came  in  the 
tinkle  of  running  water,  and  the  odor  of  roses,  along  with 
the  moonlight.  Candles  stood  on  the  table,  but  they  had 
not  been  lighted  ;  and  two  ladies  sat  by  the  window,  enjoy 
ing  the  cool  breeze, -the  sweet  light,  the  "holy  time"  of 
evening — or,  perhaps,  not  aware  of  enjoying  anything,  busy 
with  their  own  troubles  and  their  own  thoughts. 

"  I  doubt  if  I  should  advise,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two, 
"but  though  I'm  an  old  maid  myself,  I  am  not  prejudiced 
either  one  way  or  another,  my  dear.  I've  lived  too  long, 
Katie,  to  say  this  or  that  manner  of  life's  the  happiest ;  it 
does  not  matter  much  whether  you  are  married  or  not  mar- 


376  THE    LAIRD     OF   NOEL  AW. 

ried,  happiness  lies  aye  in  yourself.  It's  common  to  think  a 
single  woman  very  lone  and  dreary  when  she  comes  to  be 
old  ;  but  I'm  not  afraid  for  you.  Somebody  else  will  have 
bairns  for  you,  Katie,  if  you  do  not  have  them  for  yourself. 
Solitude  is  not  in  your  cup,  my  dear — I'm  prophet  enough 
to  read  that." 

Her  companion  made  no  answer  ;  and  in  the  little  pause 
which  ensued,  the  Esk,  and  the  roses,  and  the  moonlight 
came  in  as  a  sweet  unconscious  chorus,  but  a  chorus  full  of 
whispers  which  struck  deeper  than  those  quiet  words  of 
quiet  age. 

"  But  on  the  other  side,"  continued  the  old  lady,  "  Char 
lie  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived — the  best  son,  the  kindest 
heart !  I  would  not  trust  myself  praising  him  any  more 
than  praising  you,  my  dear.  You  are  both  a  comfort  and  a 
credit  to  us  all,  and  maybe  that  is  why  we  should  like  to 
make  the  two  of  you  one.  We're  no'  so  very  romantic, 
Katie,  in  our  family — that  is  to  say,"  continued  the  speaker, 
with  sudden  animation,  "  the  women  of  us — for  if  Charlie, 
or  any  lad  belonging  to  the  house,  was  to  offer  himself 
without  his  whole  heart  and  love,  he  had  better  never  show 
his  face  to  me." 

"  But,  auntie,"  said  the  younger  lady,  with  a  smile, 
"  would  it  be  right  to  take  a  whole  heart  and  love,  and  only 
have  kindness  to  give  in  exchange  ?" 

"  Women  are  different,  my  dear,"  said  Katie  Logan's 
maiden  aunt ;  "  I  will  confess  I  do  not  like  myself  to  hear 
young  girls  speaking  about  love — I  would  never  advise  a 
man  to  marry  without  it — nay,  the  very  thought  makes 
me  angry  ;  but — perhaps  you'll  think  it  no  compliment  to 
us,  Katie — women  are  different ;  I  have  no  fears  of  a  good 
woman  liking  her  husband,  no'  even  if  she  w^as  married 
against  her  will,  as  sometimes  happens.  I  would  advise  you 
not  to  be  timid,  so  far  as  that  is  concerned.  Charlie's  very 
fond  of  you,  and  he's  a  good  lad.  To  be  married  is  natural 
at  your  age,  to  have  a  house  of  your  own,  and  your  own 
place  in  this  worl^;  and  then  there  are  the  bairns.  Colin 
will  soon  be  off  your  hands,  but  the  other  three  are  young. 
Do  you  think  it  would  not  be  best  for  them  if  you  married 
a  friend?" 

Katie  did  not  reply ;  but  perhaps  it  was  this  last  argu 
ment  which  moved  her  to  a  long  low  sigh  of  unwelcome 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NOBLAW.  377 

conviction  The  old  lady's  emphatic  friend  was  Scotch  for 
a  relative.  Would  it  indeed  be  better  for  them  that  Katie's 
husband  should  be  her  cousin  ? 

"  Unless,"  said  her  aunt,  rising  up  to  light  the  candles, 
yet  pausing  to  give  effect  to  this  last  precaution  ;  "  unless, 
my  dear,  there  should  be  a  single  thought  of  any  other  man 
resting  in  your  mind.  If  there  is,  Katie,  think  no  more  of 
Charlie  Cassilis.  I'm  willing  you  should  marry  him  first  and 
grow  fond  of  him  after ;  but,  my  dear,  stop  and  think — do 
you  like  any  other  person  better  than  him  ?" 

"  Maybe  I  do,  auntie,"  said  the  low  voice,  softly ;  and 
Katie  shook  her  head  thoughtfully  in  the  darkness,  with  a 
half  melancholy,  half  pleased  motion ;  "  maybe  I  do." 

"  Then,  for  pity's  sake,  not  another  word  !"  cried  the  old 
lady ;  and  that  kindest  of  aunts  rustled  out  of  the  pretty 
parlor,  taking  one  of  the  candlesticks  in  her  hand,  with  a 
commotion  and  haste  which  showed  that  Katie's  quiet  half 
confession  had  by  no  means  pleased  her,  in  spite  of  her 
avowed  impartiality.  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning,  had  not 
fallen  at  that  time  into  such  degrading  familiarity  with  house 
keepers  and  housemaids  as  has  chanced  now  to  that  unhappy 
spirit.  Matches  were  none  in  all  the  village  of  Lasswade, 
nor  throughout  the  kingdom,  save  slender  slips  of  wood  an 
ointed  with  brimstone,  and  bearing  the  emphatic  name  of 
spunk  in  all  the  regions  north  of  the  Tweed.  So  Katie's 
respectable  aunt,  who  was  kind  to  her  servants,  rustled 
along  the  passage  to  the  kitchen  to  light  the  candle,  and  on 
the  way  there  and  the  way  back  recovered  her  temper — 
which  was  all  the  better  for  Katie ;  and  by-and-bye  the  quiet 
maiden  household  shut  itself  up  and  went  to  sleep. 

And  perhaps  when  Katie  knelt  by  her  bedside  that  night 
to  say  her  prayers — by  the  white  bed  where  little  Isabel 
slept  the  deep  sleep  which  all  the  children  sleep,  thank  Hea 
ven,  when  we  are  awake  with  our  troubles — a  little  weari 
ness  of  heart  made  a  sigh  among  her  prayers.  She  was 
not  romantic — the  women  of  her  family  were  otherwise  dis 
posed,  as  good  Auntie  Isabel  said,  who  had  not  a  single  self 
ish  impulse  in  her  composition ;  and  Katie  was  grieved  to 
disappoint  Cousin  Charlie,  and  perhaps  feared,  as  women 
always  do,  with  an  unconscious  vanity,  for  the  consequences 
of  his  disappointment ;  was  she  right  to  damage  his  hap 
piness,  to  refuse  a  supporter  for  herself,  a  protector  for  her 


37&  THE    LAIED    OF    NORLAW. 

children,  all  for  the  sake  of  Huntley,  who  might  perhaps 
have  forgotten  her  years  ago  ?  Katie  could  not  answer  her 
own  question,  but  she  did  what  was  the  wisest  course  under 
the  circumstances — laid  her  head  resolutely  down  on  her 
pillow  and  fell  asleep,  leaving  time  and  the  hour  to  solve 
the  question  for  her,  and  only  sure  of  one  thing — that  her 
impulse  was  right. 

But  the  question  returned  to  her  when  she  opened  her 
eyes,  in  the  morning,  in  those  first  waking  moments,  when, 
as  Beranger  says,  all  our  cares  awake  before  us,  assault 
afresh,  and,  as  if  the  first  time,  the  soul  which  has  escaped 
them  in  the  night.  Was  she  right  ?  All  through  her  early 
morning  duties  this  oft-repeated  question  beset  the  mind  of 
Katie  ;  and  it  needs  only  to  see  what  these  duties  were,  to 
acknowledge  how  pertinacious  it  was.  The  cottage  be 
longed  to  Aunt  Isabel,  who  had  received  gladly  her  orphan 
nieces  and  nephews  after  the  death  of  Dr.  Logan.  Aunt 
Isabel's  spare  income  was  just  enough  for  herself  and  her 
maid,  who,  heretofore,  had  been  sole  occupants  of  the  pretty 
little  house,  and  Katie  and  her  orphans  managed  to  live 
upon  theirs,  which  was  also  a  very  small  income,  but  mar- 
velously  taken  care  of — and  pleasantly  backed  by  the 
gooseberry-bushes  and  vegetable  beds  of  the  cottage  gar 
den,  which  riches  their  mistress  made  common  property. 
On  Katie's  advent,  Aunt  Isabel  retired  from  the  severe 
duties  of  housekeeping  in  her  own  person.  It  was  Katie 
who  made  the  tea  and  cut  the  bread  and  butter,  and  washed 
with  her  own  hands  the  delicate  cups  and  saucers  which 
Aunt  Isabel  would  not  trust  to  a  servant.  Then  the  elder 
sister  had  to  see  that  the  boys  were  ready,  with  all  their 
books  strapped  on  their  shoulder,  and  their  midday  "  piece" 
in  their  pocket,  for  school.  Then  Isabel's  daintier  toilet  had 
to  be  superintended ;  and  if  Katie  had  a  weakness,  it  was 
to  see  her  sister  prettily  dressed,  and  "  in  the  fashion" — and 
that  little  maiden  sent  forth  fair  and  neat  to  the  ladies' 
seminary  which  illustrated  the  healthful  village  of  Lasswade  ; 
and  then  Katie  went  to  the  kitchen,  to  determine  what 
should  be  had  for  dinner,  and  sometimes  to  lend  her  own 
delicate  skill  to  the  making  of  a  pudding  or  the  crimping  of 
a  frill.  When  all  was  done,  there  was  an  unfailing  supply 
of  needlework  to  keep  her  hands  employed.  On  this  par 
ticular  morning,  Aunt  Isabel  meditated  a  call  upon  Miss 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOELAW.  3*79 

Hogg,  in  Lasswade,  and  Katie  had  been  so  much  persecu 
ted  by  that  question  which  some  malicious  imp  kept  always 
addressing  to  her,  that  she  felt  heated  and  out  of  breath  in 
the  pretty  parlor.  So  she  took  up  her  work,  put  her  thread 
and  scissors  in  her  pocket,  and  went  out  to  the  garden  to 
sit  on  a  low  garden  seat,  with  the  grass  under  her  feet,  and 
the  trees  over  her,  and  sweet  Esk  singing  close  at  hand, 
thinking  it  might  be  easier  to  pursue  her  occupation  there. 

Perhaps  that  was  a  mistake.  It  is  not  easy  to  sew,  nor 
to  read,  nor  even  to  think,  out  of  doors  on  a  June  morning, 
with  a  sweet  river  drowsing  by,  and  the  leaves,  and  the 
roses,  and  the  birds,  and  the  breeze  making  among  them 
that  delightful  babble  of  sound  and  motion  which  people 
call  the  quiet  of  the  country.  Still  Katie  did  work  ;  she 
was  making  shirts  for  Colin,  who  had  just  gone  into  Edin 
burgh  to  Cousin  Charlie's  office  ; — stitching  w7ristbands ! 
and  in  spite  of  the  sunshine  and  her  perplexed  thoughts, 
Katie's  button-holes  were  worth  going  ten  miles  to  see. 

But  was  she  right  ?  Search  through  all  the  three  king 
doms  and  you  could  not  have  found  a  better  fellow  than 
Cousin  Charlie,  who  was  very  fond  of  Katie  Logan,  and 
had  been  for  years.  The  elder  sister  liked  him  heartily, 
knew  that  he  would  be  kind  to  her  orphans,  believed  him 
every  thing  that  was  good  in  man ;  but  while  she  reasoned 
with  herself,  the  color  wavered  upon  her  cheek,  and  some 
where  in  heart  a  voice,  which  might  have  been  the  Esk 
river,  so  closely  its  whisper  ran  with  her  thoughts,  kept 
saying,  "  Dinna  forget  me,  Katie  !"  till,  by  dint  of  persis 
tence,  all  the  other  meditations  yielded,  and  this,  with  a 
triumphant  shout,  kept  the  field.  Oh,  Huntley  Livingstone ! 
who  had,  just  as  like  as  no',  forgotten  Katie — was  she 
right  ? 

He  could  not  have  come  at  a  better  time — he  came  quite 
unannounced,  unintroduced,  so  suddenly  that  Katie  made 
an  outcry  almost  of  terror — one  moment,  nobody  with  her 
but  the  Esk,  and  the  roses,  and  her  own  thoughts — not  a 
shadow  on  the  grass,  not  a  step  on  the  road.  The  next 
moment,  Huntley,  standing  there  between  her  and  the  sky, 
between  her  and  home,  shutting  out  every  thing  but  himself, 
who  had  to  be  first  attended  to.  If  she  had  only  seen  him 
a  moment  sooner,  she  might  have  recived  him  quite  calmly, 
with  the  old  smile  of  "the  elder-sister;  but  because  of  the 


380  THE    LAIKD     OP    NOELAW. 

start,  Katie  getting  up,  dropping  her  work,  and  holding  out 
her  hands,  looked  about  as  agitated,  as  glad,  as  tearful,  as 
out  of  herself,  as  even  Huntley  was. 

"  I  have  come  home — to  Norlaw — to  remain,"  said  Hunt- 
ley,  when  he  began  to  know  what  he  was  saying,  which  was 
not  just  the  first  moment ;  "  and  you  are  not  an  old  Katie 
in  a  cap,  as  you  threatened  to  be  ;  but  first  I've  come  to 
say  out  what  I  dared  not  say  in  the  manse  parlor — and  you 
know  what  that  is.  Katie,  if  you  have  forgotten  me — Heaven 
knows  I  never  will  blame  you  ! — it's  seven  weary  years  since 
then — if  you  have  forgotten  me,  Katie,  tell  me  I  am  not  to 
speak !" 

Katie  had  two  or  three  impulses  for  the  moment — to  tell 
the  truth,  she  was  quite  happy,  rejoiced  to  be  justified  in 
the  unsolicited  affection  she  had  given,  and  entirely  con 
tented  in  standing  by  this  sudden  OEdipus,  who  was  to  re 
solve  all  her  doubts.  Being  so,  she  could  almost  have  run 
away  from  the  embarrassment  and  gravity  of  the  moment, 
and  made  a  little  natural  sport  of  the  solemnity  of  the  lover, 
who  stood  before  her  as  if  his  life  depended  on  it.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  only  coquettish  thought  which  Katie  Logan  ever 
was  guilty  of.  But  she  conquered  it — she  looked  up  at  him 
with  her  old  smile. 

"  Speak,  Huntley  !"  she  said ;  and  having  said  so  much, 
there  was  not,  to  tell  the  truth,  a  great  deal  more  neces 
sary.  Huntley  spoke,  you  may  be  sure,  and  Katie  listened  ; 
and  the  very  roses  on  the  cottage  wall  were  not  less  troub 
led  about  Cousin  Charlie  for  the  next  hour  than  she  was. 
And  when  Aunt  Isabel  returned,  and  Katie  went  in  with  a 
blush,  holding  Huntley's  arm,  to  introduce  him  simply  as 
"  Huntley  Livingstone,"  with  a  tone  and  a  look  which 
needed  no  interpretation,  there  was  no  longer  a  doubt  in 
Katie's  mind  as  to  whether  she  was  riglit. 

But  she  did  not  think  it  needful  to  tell  Huntley  what 
question  she  was  considering  when  his  sudden  appearance 
startled  her  out  of  all  her  perplexities ;  and  it  is  very  likely 
that  in  that,  at  least,  Katie  was  perfectly  right. 


THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW.  381 


CHAPTEE   LXXV. 

A  VERY  sadly  different  scene ;  no  young  hopes  blossom 
ing  towards  perfection — no  young  lives  beginning — no  joy 
— has  called  together  this  company,  or  makes  this  room 
bright;  a  dark  house,  shrouded  still  in  its  closed  curtains 
and  shutters,  a  wan  light  in  the  apartment,  a  breathless  air 
of  death  throughout  the  place,.  Outside,  the  tawdry 
Frenchman,  with  a  long  crape  hatband,  knotted  up  in  fune 
ral  bows,  as  is  the  custom  in  Scotland,  walking  up  and 
down  smoking  his  cigar,  angry  at  finding  himself  excluded, 
yet  tired  of  the  brief  decorum  into  which  even  he  has  been 
awed,  and  much  disposed  to  amuse  himself  with  any  kitchen- 
maid  whom  he  may  chance  to  see  as  he  peers  about  their 
quarters,  keeping  at  the  back  of  the  house.  But  the  maids 
are  horrified  and  defiant,  and  the  affair  is  rather  dull,  after 
all,  for  Monsieur  Pierrot. 

The  company  are  all  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  as 
they  have  returned  from  the  funeral.  The  minister,  the 
doctor,  a  lawyer  from  Melrose,  Cameron,  and  the  three 
brothers  Livingstone.  Madame  Roche,  her  black  gowTi 
covered  with  crape,  and  every  thing  about  her  of  the  deep 
est  sable,  save  her  cap,  the  white  ribbons  of  which  are  crape 
ribbons  too,  sits,  with  her  handkerchief  in  her  hand,  in  an 
easy  chair.  The  Mistress  is  there,  too,  rather  wondering 
and  disapproving,  giving  her  chief  attention  to  Desiree,  who 
sits  behind  her  mother  quietly  crying,  and  supposing  this 
solemn  assembly  is  some  necessary  formality  which  must  be 
gone  through. 

"  Is  it  to  read  the  will  ?"  asks  the  minister,  who  suggests 
that  her  husband  had  better  be  present ;  but  no,  there  is  no 
will — for  poor  Marie  had  nothing  and  could  leave  nothing. 
When  they  have  been  all  seated  for  a  few  minutes,  Madame 
Roche  herself  rises  from  her  chair.  Though  the  tears  are 
in  her  eyes,  and  grief  in  her  face,  she  is  still  the  beautiful 
old  lady  whom  Cosmo  Livingstone  loved  to  watch  from  his 
window  in  St.  Ouen.  Time  himself,  the  universal  conqueror, 
can  never  take  from  Mary  of  Melmar  that  gift  which  sur 
rounded  her  with  love  in  her  youth,  and  which  has  lighted 
all  her  troubled  life  like  a  fairy  lamp.  The  sweet  soft  cheek 


382  THE    LAIKD     OF    NOBLAW. 

where  even  wrinkles  are  lovely,  the  beautiful  old  eyes  which 
even  in  their  tears  can  not  choose  but  smile,  the  footstep  so 
light,  yet  so  firm,  which  still  might  ring  "  like  siller  bells," 
though  its  way  is  heavy.  Every  one  was  looking  at  her, 
and  as  they  looked,  every  one  acknowledged  the  unchang 
ing  fascination  of  this  beautiful  face. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Madame  Roche  with  a  little  tremor  in 
her  voice,  "I  would  speak  to  you  all — I  would  do  my  justice 
before  the  world ;  you  have  heard  what  I  was  in  my  youth. 
Mary  Huntley  of  Melmar,  my  father's  heiress.  I  was  dis 
obedient — I  went  away  from  him — I  knew  he  disowned  me, 
and  knew  no  more  than  an  infant  that  he  relented  in  his 
heart  when  he  died.  I  was  poor  all  my  life — my  Marie,  my 
dear  child  !"  and  here  Madame  Roche  paused  to  sob  aloud, 
and  Desiree  laid  her  head  upon  the  knee  of  the  Mistress 
and  clutched  at  her  dress  in  silent  self-control ;  "  it  was 
then  she  married  this  man — married  him  to  break  her  heart 
— yet  still  loved  him  to  the  last.  Ah,  my  friends,  I  was 
thus  a  widow  with  my  sick  child  in  my  husband's  town. 
My  Jean  was  dead,  and  she  was  forsaken — and  my  Desiree 
was  gone  from  me  to  serve  strangers — it  was  then  that  one 
came  to  my  house  like  an  angel  from  heaven.  Cosmo,  my 
friend,  do  you  blush  that  I  should  name  your  name? 

"  And  what  a  tale  he  told  me !"  cried  poor  Madame 
Roche,  whose  tears  now  filled  her  eyes,  and  whose  lips 
quivered  so  that  she  had  to  pause  from  moment  to  moment ; 
"  I,  who  thought  me  a  lonely  woman,  whom  no  one  cared 
for ; — my  father  had  thought  upon  me — my  kinsman,  Pat 
rick  Livingstone,  had  sought  me  to  give  me  back  my  lands 
— my  young  hero  was  seeking  me  then ;  and  his  brother, 
yes,  Huntley,  his  noble  brother,  was  ready  to  renounce  his 
right — and  all  for  the  widow  and  her  children.  I  weep,  ah, 
my  friends,  you  weep  ! — was  it  not  noble  ?  was  it  not  above 
praise  ?  When  I  heard  it  I  made  a  vow — I  said  in  my 
heart  I  should  repay  this  excellent  Huntley.  I  had  planned 
it  in  my  mind — I  said  in  my  thoughts,  my  Marie,  my  blessed 
child,  must  have  half  of  this  great  fortune.  She  is  married, 
she  can  not  make  compensation — but  the  rest  is  for  Desiree, 
and  Desiree  shall  give  it  back  to  Huntley  Livingstone." 

Every  one  of  her  auditors  by  this  time  gazed  upon 
Madame  Roche.  Desiree,  sitting  behind  her,  lifted  her 
face  from  the  lap  of  the  Mistress ;  she  was  perfectly  pale, 


THE    LAIKD    OF    NOKLAW.  383 

and  her  eyes  were  heavy  with  crying.  She  sat  leaning  for 
ward,  holding  the  Mistress's  gown  with  one  hand,  with 
sudden  dismay  and  terror  in  her  white  face.  Just  opposite 
her  Cameron  sat,  clenching  his  hand.  What  he  was  think 
ing  no  one  could  say — but  as  Madame  Roche  spoke  of 
Marie  he  still  clenched  his  hand.  Then  came  the  strangers, 
surprised  and  sympathetic,  Patrick  Livingstone  among 
them.  Then  Huntley,  much  startled  and  wondering,  and 
Cosmo,  with  a  face  which  reflected  Desiree's,  dismayed  and 
full  of  anxiety,  and  the  attitude  of  a  man  about  to  spring  up 
to  defy,  or  denounce,  or  contradict  the  speaker.  The  Mis 
tress  behind  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  with  a  face  like  a 
psalm  of  battle  and  triumph,  her  nostril  dilating,  her  eyes 
shining.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  Mistress's  heart 
warmed  to  Mary  of  Melmar.  She  alone  wanted  no  expla 
nation  of  this  speech — she  alone  showed  no  surprise  or 
alarm — it  was  but  a  just  and  fit  acknowledgment — a  glory 
due  to  the  sons  of  Norlaw. 

"  But,  alas,"  cried  Madame  Roche ;  "  God  has  looked 
upon  it,  and  it  has  not  been  enough.  He  has  broken  my 
heart  and  made  my  way  clear;  pity  me,  my  friends,  my 
Marie  is  in  heaven  and  her  mother  here !  And  now  there 
is  but  one  heir.  My  Desiree  is  my  only  child — there  is 
none  to  share  her  inheritance.  Huntley  Livingstone,  come 
to  me !  I  have  thought  and  I  have  dreamed  of  the  time 
when  I  should  give  you  my  child — but,  alas !  did  I  think  it 
should  be  only  when  Marie  was  in  her  grave?  Huntley 
Livingstone  !  you  gave  up  your  right  to  me,  and  I  restore 
it  to  you.  I  give  you  my  child,  and  Melmar  is  for  Desiree. 
There  is  no  one  to  share  it  with  you,  my  daughter  and  my 
son !" 

Huntley  had  risen  and  approached  to  Madame  Roche, 
though  with  reluctance,  when  she  called  him.  Now  she 
held  his  hand  in  one  of  hers,  and  stretched  out  the  other  for 
that  of  Desiree — while  Huntley,  confounded,  confused,  and 
amazed  beyond  expression,  had  not  yet  recovered  himself  ( 
sufficiently  to  speak.  Before  he  could  speak  Cosmo  had  I 
sprung  to  the  side  of  Desiree,  who  stood  holding  back  and 
meeting  her  mother's  appeal  with  a  look  of  dumb  defiance 
and  exasperation,  which  might  be  very  wrong,  but  was 
certainly  very  natural.  Every  one  rose.  But  for  the  grief 
of  the  principal  actors,  and  the  painful  embarrassment  of  all, 


384  THE    LAIRD     OF    NORLAW. 

the  scene  might  almost  have  been  ludicrous.  Cosmo,  who 
had  grasped  at  Desiree's  hand,  did  not  obtain  it  any  more 
than  her  mother.  The  girl  stood  up,  but  kept  her  hold  of 
the  Mistress's  gown,  as  if  for  protection. 

"  No,  no,  no,  no !"  said  Desiree,  in  a  low,  hurried, 
ashamed  voice ;  "  mother,  no — no — no !  I  will  not  do  it ! 
Mamma,  will  you  shame  me  ?  Oh,  pity  us !  Is  it  thus  we 
are  to  weep  for  Marie  ?" 

"  My  child,  it  is  justice,"  cried  Madame  Roche,  through 
her  tears ;  "  give  him  your  hand — it  is  that  Huntley  may 
have  his  own." 

"  But  there  is  some  strange  mistake  here,"  said  Iluntley, 
whose  brow  burned  with  a  painful  flush ;  "  Melmar  was 
never  mine,  nor  had  I  any  real  right  to  it.  Years  ago  I 
have  even  forgotten  that  it  once  was  possible.  Be  silent  for 
a  moment,  Cosmo,  I  beg  of  you,  and  you,  Mademoiselle  De 
siree,  do  not  fear.  Madame  Roche,  I  thank  you  for  your 
generous  meaning,  but  it  is  an  entire  mistake  in  every  way 
— let  me  explain  it  privately.  Let  us  be  alone  first ; — nay, 
nay,  let  me  speak,  then !  I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  our 
house  is  older  than  Melmar  ;  and  nothing  in  the  world,  were 
it  the  hand  of  a  queen,  could  tempt  me  to  call  myself  any 
thing  but  Livingstone  of  Norlaw !" 

The  Mistress  had  been  standing  up,  like  everybody  else, 
an  excited  spectator.  When  Huntley  said  these  words  she 
sat  down  suddenly,  with  a  glow  and  flush  of  triumph  not  to 
be  described — the  name  of  her  husband  and  her  son  ringing 
in  her  ears  like  a  burst  of  music ;  and  then,  for  the  first 
time,  Desiree  relinquished  her  hold,  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  Iluntley,  while  Cosmo  grasped  his  other  hand  and  wrung 
it  in  both  his  with  a  violent  pressure.  The  three  did  not 
think  for  that  moment  of  Madame  Roche,  who  had  been 
looking  in  Huntley's  face  all  the  time  he  spoke  to  her,  and 
who,  when  he  ended,  dropped  his  hand  silently  and  sank 
into  her  chair.  She  was  leaning  back  now,  with  her  white 
handkerchief  over  her  face — and  the  hand  that  held  it  trem 
bled.  Poor  Madame  Roche  !  this  was  all  her  long  thought 
of  scheme  had  come  to — she  could  only  cover  her  face  and 
forget  the  pang  of  failure  in  the  bigger  pang  of  grief — she 
did  not  say  another  word  ;  she  comprehended — for  she  was 
not  slow  of  understanding — that  Huntley's  little  effusion  of 
family  pride  was  but  a  rapid  and  generous  expedient  to  save 


THE    LAIED     OF    NOEL  AW.  385 

him  from  a  direct  rejection  of  Desiree.  And  poor  Madame 
Roche's  heart  grew  sick  with  the  quick  discouragement  of 
grief.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  heavier  tears  came  from 
them  than  even  those  she  had  shed  for  Marie.  She  had  tried 
her  best  to  make  them  happy,  she  had  failed  ;  and  now  they 
for  whose  sake  alone  she  had  made  all  this  exertion  neglect 
ed  and  forgot  her.  It  was  too  much  for  Madame  Roche. 

"  Mamma,  listen,"  whispered  Desiree,  soothingly.  "  Ah, 
mamma,  you  might  force  mine — I  should  always  obey  you 
— but  you  can  not  force  Huntley's  heart — he  does  not  care 
for  me  •  bah,  that  is  nothing ! — but  there  is  one  whom  he 
cares  for — one  whom  he  has  come  home  for — Katie,  whom 
they  all  love !  Mamma,  you  were  right !  he  is  noble,  he  is 
generous ;  but  what  is  Melmar  to  Huntley  ?  He  has  come 
back  for  Katie  and  his  own  home." 

"  Katie  ? — some  one  else  ?  My  darling,  does  he  love 
her  ?"  said  Madame  Roche.  "  Then  it  is  God  who  has  un 
done  all,  Desiree,  and  I  am  content.  Let  him  come  to  me, 
and  I  will  bless  him.  I  will  bless  you  all,  my  children,"  she 
said,  raising  herself  up,  and  stretching  her  hands  toward 
them.  "  Ah,  friends,  do  you  see  them — so  young  and  so 
like  each  other !  and  it  was  he  who  sought  us,  and  not 
Huntley  ;  and  it  is  I  who  am  wrong — and  God  is  right!" 

Saying  which,  Madame  Roche  kissed  Huntley's  cheek, 
dismissing  him  so,  and  took  Cosmo  into  her  arms  instead. 
Her  sweet  temper  and  facile  mind  forgot  even  her  own  fail 
ure.  She  put  back  Cosmo's  hair  tenderly  from  his  forehead 
and  called  him  her  hero.  He  was  her  son  at  least ;  and  De 
siree  and  Melmar,  the  two  dreams  of  his  fancy,  between 
which,  when  he  saw  the  girl  first,  he  suspected  no  possible 
connection,  came  at  once,  a  double  gift,  the  one  eagerly 
sought,  the  other  totally  unthought  of,  into  the  Benjamin's 
portion  of  Cosmo  Livingstone. 


CHAPTER    LXXYI.  . 

"  THERE'S  aye  plenty  fools  in  this  world,"  said  bowed 
Jaacob ;  "  a'thing  else  that's  human  fails,  but  that  commod 
ity's  aye  ready.  I  had  my  hopes  of  that  laddie  Livingstone. 

17 


386  THE    LAIRD    OF    NORLAW. 

He  has  nae  discrimination,  and  hasna  seen  the  world,  like 
some  other  folk,  but  for  a'  that  I  thought  I  could  perceive  a 
ring  of  the  right  metal  in  him,  and  I'm  no'  often  wrang. 
And  so  Cosmo's  to  be  marriet !  I  dinna  disapprove  of  his 
taste — that's  a  different  matter.  I  even  had  a  great  notion 
of  her  mysel' ;  but  when  the  la'd's  married  there's  an  end  ot 
him.  Wha  ever  heard  tell  of  a  man  coming  to  distinction 
with  a  wife  at  his  tail  ? — na  !  I  wash  my  hands  of  Cosmo 
— he  shall  never  mair  be  officer  of  mine." 

Jaacob  did  not  address  himself  to  any  one  in  particular. 
The  news  with  which  Kirkbride  was  ringing  was  great  news 
in  its  way,  and  a  little  crowd  had  collected  in  the  corner, 
close  by  the  smithy,  to  discuss  it,  a  crowd  composed  chiefly 
of  women,  chief  among  whom,  in  a  flush  of  triumph  and 
importance,  stood  Marget  of  Norlaw.  Jaacob  did  not  often 
concern  his  lofty  intelligence  with  the  babble  of  women,  but 
the  little  giant  was  interested  in  spite  of  himself,  and  had  a 
warm  corner  in  his  heart  for  both  the  heroes  who  were  un 
der  present  discussion.  A  lusty  blacksmith  apprentice  puff 
ed  at  the  great  bellows  within  that  ruddy  cavern,  and  Jaa 
cob  stood  at  the  door,  with  one  or  two  male  gossips  linger 
ing  near  him,  which  was  a  salve  to  his  dignity  ;  but  Jaacob's 
words  were  not  addressed  even  to  his  own  cronies ;  they 
were  a  spontaneous  effusion  of  observant  wisdom,  mingled 
with  benevolent  regret. 

"  The  man's  in  a  creel !"  cried  the  indignant  Marget — "  an 
officer  of  yours,  Jaacob  Bell? — yours,  ye  objeck!  and  I 
would  just  like  to  ken  wha  gave  the  like  of  you  ony  right 
to  ca'  our  son  by  his  christened  name  ?  Na,  sirs,  ye're  a' 
wrang — it  just  shows  how  little  folk  ken  about  ony  thing  out 
of  their  ain  road ;  and  canna  haud  their  peace  either,  or  let 
them  speak  that  have  the  knowledge.  The  auld  lady — her 
that  was  Mary  of  Melmar — would  have  given  our  Huntley 
baith  the  land  and  the  bonnie  lass,  if  it  had  been  her  will,  for 
she's  a  real  sensible  woman,  as  it's  turned  out,  and  kens  the 
value  of  lads  like  ours.  But  Huntley  Livingstone,  he  said 
no.  He's  no'  the  lad,  our  Huntley,  to  be  ony  wife's  man — 
and  he  has  his  awn  yestate,  and  an  aulder  name  and  fame 
than  Melmar.  There's  no'  an  auld  relick  in  the  whole 
country-side  like  our  auld  castle.  I've  heard  it  from  them 
that  ken ;  and  our  Huntley  would  no  mair  part  with  the 
name  than  wi'  his  right  hand.  Eh !  if  auld  Norlaw,  puir 


THE    LAIRD    OF    NOEL  AW.  387 

man,  had  but  lived  to.see  this  day !  Our  Cosmo  is  very  like 
his  father.  He's  just  as  like  to  be  kent  far  and  near  for  his 
poems  and  his  stories  as  Walter  Scott  ower  yonder  at  Ab- 
botsford.  It's  just  like  a  story  in  a  book  itsel'.  When  he 
was  but  a  laddie — no'  muckle  bigger  than  bowed  Jaacob — 
he  fell  in  with  a  bonnie  bit  wee  French  lady,  in  Edinburgh. 
I  mind  him  telling  me — there's  never  ony  pride  about  our 
sons — just  as  well  as  if  it  was  yesterday.  The  callant's  head 
ran  upon  naething  else — and  wha  was  this  but  just  Miss  De- 
seera !  and  he's  courted  her  this  mony  a  year,  whaever 
might  oppose ;  and  now  he's  won  and  conquered,  and  there's 
twa  weddings  to  be  in  Kirkbride,  baith  in  the  very  same 
day !" 

"  In  Kirkbride  ?  but,  dear  woman,  Miss  Logan's  no'  here," 
suggested  one  of  the  bystanders. 

"  Wha's  heeding !"  cried  Marget,  in  her  triumph,  "  if 
ane's  in  Kirkbride,  and  ane  in  anither  kirk,  is  that  onything 
against  the  truth  I  am  telling?  Sirs,  haud  a'  your  tongues 
— I've  carried  them  a'  in  my  arms,  and  told  them  stories. 
I've  stood  by  them  and  their  mother,  just  me  and  no  other 
person,  when  they  were  in  their  sorest  trouble  ;  and  I  would 
like  to  hear  wha  daur  say  a  word,  if  Norlaw  Marget  is  just 
wild  and  out  of  her  wits  for  aince  in  her  life  to  see  their  joy  !" 

"  I  never  look  for  discretion  at  a  woman's  hand  mysel'," 
said  bowed  Jaacob,  though  even  Jaacob  paused  a  little  be 
fore  he  brought  the  shadow  of  his  cynicism  over  Marget's 
enthusiasm ;  "  they're  easy  pleased,  pair  things,  and  easy 
cast  down — a  man  of  sense  has  aye  a  compassion  for  the  sex 
— it's  waste  o'  time  arguing  with  them.  Maybe  that's  a 
reason  for  lamenting  this  lad  Livingstone.  A  man,  if  he's 
no'  a'  the  stronger,  is  awfu'  apt  to  fall  to  the  level  of  his 
company — and  to  think  of  a  promising  lad,  no'  five-and- 
twenty,  lost  amang  a  haill  tribe — wife,  mother,  mother-in- 
law,  sister-in-law,  and  gude  kens  how  mony  friends  forbye — 
it's  grievous — that's  just  what  it  is ;  a  man  goes  down,  a 
man  comes  to  the  calibre  of  the  woman.  For  which  cause," 
said  bowed  Jaacob,  thrusting  his  cowl  on  one  side  of  his 
head,  twisting  still  higher  his  high  shoulder,  and  fixing  a 
defiant  gaze  upon  the  admiring  crowd  with  his  one  eye ; 
"in  spite  of  mony  temptations — for  I'll  say  that  for  the 
women,  that  they  ken  a  man  of  sense  when  they  see  him — 
I'm  no',  and  never  will  be,  a  marrying  man  mysel' !" 


388  THE    LAIKD    OF    NOEL  AW. 

"  Eh,  but  Jaacob,"  cried  a  saucy  voice,  "  if  you  could  have 
gotten  her,  you  might  have  put  up  with  Miss  Roche." 

"  Humph — I  had  a  great  notion  of  the  lassie,"  said  Jaacob, 
loftily  ;  "  men  at  my  years  get  above  the  delusion  of  look 
ing  for  a  woman  as  a  companion.  It  makes  nae  muckle 
matter  whether  she's  ca'ed  a  foolish  woman  or  a  sensible 
ane ;  its  naething  but  a  question  of  degree ;  and  when  a 
man  finds  that  out,  he  has  a  right  to  please  his  e'e.  When 
you  hear  of  me  married,  it's  a  wife  of  sixteen,  that's  what 
I'll  have  gotten  ;  but  you  see,  as  for  Miss  Deeseera,  puir 
thjng,  she  may  be  breaking  her  heart,  for  onything  I  ken. 
I'm  a  man  of  honor,  and  Cosmo's  a  great  friend  of  mine — I 
wouldna,  for  twenty  Melmars,  come  between  my  friend  and 
his  love." 

And  amid  the  laughter  which  echoed  this  magnanimous 
speech,  bowed  Jaacob  retired  into  the  ruddy  gloom  of  the 
smithy  and  resumed  his  hammer,  which  he  played  with  such 
manful  might  and  intention  upon  the  glowing  iron,  that  the 
red  light  illuminated  his  whole  swarthy  face  and  person, 
and  the  red  sparks  flashed  round  him  like  the  rays  round  a 
saint  in  an  old  picture.  He  was  not  in  the  least  a  saintly  in 
dividual,  but  Rembrandt  himself  could  not  have  found  a 
better  study  for  light  and  shade. 

A  little  time  sufficed  to  accomplish  these  momentous 
changes.  The  Mistress  gave  up  her  trust  of  Norlaw,  the 
cows  and  dairies  which  were  the  pride  of  her  heart,  the  bank 
book,  with  its  respectable  balance,  and  all  the  rural  wealth 
of  the  farmsteading,  to  her  son.  And  Huntley  warned  the 
tenants  to  whom  his  mother  had  let  the  land  that  he  should 
resume  the  farming  of  it  himself  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
when  their  terms  were  out.  Every  thing  about  Norlaw 
began  to  wrear  signs  of  preparation.  The  Mistress  spoke 
vaguely  of  going  with  Patie,  the  only  one  of  her  sons  who 
still  "  belonged  to  his  mother" — and  making  a  home  for  him 
in  Glasgow.  But  Patie  was  an  engineer,  involved  over  head 
and  ears  in  the  Herculean  work  of  the  new  railways ;  he  was 
scarcely  three  months  in  the  year,  take  them  altogether,  at 
the  lodging  which  he  called  his  head  quarters — and  perhaps, 
on  the  whole,  he  rather  discouraged  the  idea. 

"  At  least,  mother,  you  must  wait  to  welcome  Katie," 
said  this  astute  and  long-headed  adviser  of  the  family — and 
the  Mistress,  with  her  strong  sense  of  country  breeding  and 


THE    LAIRD     OP    NORLAW.  389 

decorum,  would  not  have  done  less,  had  it  broken  her  heart. 
But  she  rather  longed  for  the  interval  to  be  over,  and  the 
matter  concluded.  The  Mistress,  somehow,  could  not  un 
derstand  or  recognize  herself  adrift  from  Norlaw. 

"  But  I  dinna  doubt  it  would  be  best — it's  natural,"  said 
the  Mistress — "  they  should  have  their  good  beginning  to 
themselves,"  and  with  that  she  sighed,  and  grew  'red  with 
shame  to  think  it  was  a  sigh,  and  spoke  sharply  to  Marget, 
and  put  the  old  easy  chair  which  had  been  "  their  father's !" 
away  into  a  corner,  with  a  little  momentary  ebullition  of 
half  resentful  tears.  But  she  never  lost  her  temper  to 
Huntley — it  was  only  Nature,  and  not  her  son  who  was  to 
blame. 

It  was  early  in  August  when  Katie  came  home.  The 
Mistress  stood  at  the  door  waiting  to  receive  her,  on  a  night 
which  was  worthy  such  a  homecoming.  Just  sunset,  the 
field-laborers  going  home,  the  purple  flush  folded  over  the 
Eildons  like  a  regal  mantle,  the  last  tender  ray  catching  the 
roofless  wall  of  the  Strength  of  Norlaw,  and  the  soft  hill 
rising  behind,  with  yellow  corn  waving  rich  to  its  summit, 
soon  to  be  ripe  for  the  harvest.  Tears  were  in  the  Mis 
tress's  heart,  but  smiles  in  her  face ;  she  led  her  new 
daughter  in  before  even  Huntley,  brought  her  to  the  dining- 
parlor,  and  set  her  in  her  own  chair. 

"  This  is  where  I  sat  first  myself  the  day  I  came  home," 
said  the  Mistress,  with  a  sob,  "  and  sit  you  there  ;  and  God 
bless  my  bairns,  and  build  up  Norlaw — amen !" 

But  Katie  said  the  amen  too,  and  rose  again,  holding  the 
Mistress  fast  and  looking  up  in  her  face. 

"  I  have  not  said  mother  for  ten  years,"  said  Katie. 
"  Mother !  do  you  think  dispeace  can  ever  rise  between  you 
and  me,  that  you  should  think  once  of  going  away  ?" 

The  Mistress  paused. 

"  No  dispeace,  Katie — no,  God  forbid !"  said  Huntley's 
mother,  "  but  I'm  a  hasty  woman  in  my  speech,  and  ever 
was." 

"  But  not  to  me,"  said  the  Katie  who  was  no  more  Katie 
Logan — "  never  to  me  !  and  Huntley  will  be  a  lonely  man 
if  his  mother  goes  from  ISToiiaw,  for  where  thou  goest  I 
will  go,  and  where  thou  dwellest  I  will  dwell.  Mother,  tell 
me !  is  it  Patie  or  poor  Huntley  who  is  to  have  you  and 
me  ?" 


390  THE    LAIED    OP    NOEL  AW. 

The  Mistress  did  not  say  a  word.  She  suffered  herself  to 
be  placed  in  the  chair  where  she  had  placed  Katie,  and  then 
put  her  apron  over  her  face  and  wept,  thinking  strangely, 
all  at  once,  not  of  a  new  daughter-in-law  and  a  changed 
place,  but  of  him  who  lay  sleeping  among  the  solemn  ruins 
at  Dryburgh,  and  all  the  sacred  chain  of  years  that  made 
dear  this  house  of  Norlaw. 

The  other  marriage  took  place    after  that,  with  much 

greater  glory  and  distinction,  to  the  pride  of  the  Mistress's 
cart.  It  was  a  great  festival  when  it  came — which  was 
not  till  the  season  of  mourning  was  over — to  all  of  whom 
Madame  Roche  could  reach.  Even  Joanna  Huntley  and 
Aunt  Jean  were  persuaded  to  come  to  gladden  the  wedding 
of  Desiree  and  Cosmo;  and  it  is  even  said  that  Joanna,  who 
is  of  a  very  scientific  turn  of  mind,  and  has  a  little  private 
laboratory  of  her  own,  where  she  burns  her  pupils'  fingers, 
was  the  finder  of  that  strange  little  heap  of  dust  and  cinders 
,  which  revealed  to  Huntley  the  mineral  wealth  in  the  corner 
of  the  Norlaw  lands,  which  now  has  made  him  rich  enough 
to  buy  three  Norlaws.  At  any  rate,  Joanna  was  put  into 
perfect  good  humor  by  her  visit,  and  thenceforward,  with 
the  chivalry  of  a  knight-errant,  worshiped  above  all  loveli 
ness  the  beautiful  old  face  of  Madame  Roche. 

This  is  about  all  there  is  to  tell  of  the  Livingstone  family. 
They  had  their  troubles,  and  are  having  them,  like  all  of 
us ;  but,  like  all  of  us,  have  great  joy-cordials  now  and 
then  to  make  them  strong ;  and  always  Providence  to  work 
a  clear  web  put  of  the  tangled  exertions  which  we  make 
without  witting,  and  which  God  sorts  into  His  appointed 
lot. 


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